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THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF 
CHANGE 



BY 
D. P. RHODES 



ETefo gork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1909 

All rights reserved 



ft* 



COPYRIGHT, 1909, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1909. 



©AfjL^oQ 



SEP 



M6498 
1« 1909 



NorruooD ^nsa 

J. S. Cashing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



PREFACE 

I must warn you, reader, at the outset, of certain 
feats that are to be perpetrated and of certain others 
that are to be omitted in the course of these pages. 
Otherwise, as I have it on excellent authority, you 
may dislike or even despise me, and will be free to 
revile me for having shamelessly led you into a 
discussion such as you had no reason to look for 
under the cover of any book bearing a conventional 
title. 

The purpose of this book is to show that truth has 
never been, and cannot now be, demonstrated by 
man as a whole or in any part ; that all our so-called 
truths are of necessity merely errors making in the 
direction of that universal truth which can never be 
attained but once, and once attained, cannot en- 
dure. But — and this is to be well noted — once 
this truth is supplanted by error, this error can have 
no other goal than universal truth. What we com- 
monly regard as error will be seen to have been de- 
rived invariably from one of two sources : (1) that 
which has once been regarded as truth, and (2) 
conceptions of illusions impossible in fact. Hence 
between human knowledge and human error there 



vi PREFACE 

is no fundamental distinction but only an apparent 
and practically useful one. To this statement the 
single exception is embodied in the first principle 
of this philosophy ; and it will be seen that this prin- 
ciple itself is not a complete or perfect truth, but 
is dependent for its perfection upon the unknown 
sum of its constituent parts. 

It will be observed that time is first implied as a 
condition of this universal process, and is then denied 
the value which is commonly assigned to it. This 
question will form one of the interesting considera- 
tions of the book; it is, however, hardly to be ap- 
proached before a more detailed investigation has 
supplied the necessary material and terms. 

As with truth, so with happiness, which will be 
found to be indistinguishable from truth. It will 
be shown that, did we once attain happiness, our 
chief concern would be lest it should endure, — i.e. if 
we could have any concerns when we had attained 
absolute truth. 

Finally will be considered the relation of this 
philosophy to our daily lives upon Earth, both now 
and in a conceivable distant future. 

Its outcome should, I think, be called a new, 
rational, and workable optimism. As I have already 
stated, the philosophy does not explain experience 
in the least or most superficial of its phases. Hence 
you are not to expect from me particular demon- 
strations, or that I shall establish point after par- 



PREFACE vii 

ticular point conclusively and expressibly, for it 
will appear that I must regard such separate dem- 
onstrations and established points as mere will- 
o'-the-wisps. Nevertheless, I make the highest 
pretensions; and if I can but make the philosophy 
intelligible, you should be able to apply its results 
practically in a great variety of ways, without 
difficulty or hesitation. For I have interpreted 
experience generally in the light of the single sig- 
nificant principle which it reveals; and I have 
described, in terms by no means too general, the 
immediate future of a race that has attained to the 
most rational view of life now possible. 

Any who read with interest to the end of this book 
will perhaps divine that the task of making such 
announcements as the foregoing was not an alto- 
gether congenial one. I should prefer to have my 
conclusion stand in its proper place, as a conclusion, 
instead of intruding itself thus before the argument, 
as if it had been arrived at by intuition and then set 
up as a thing to be proved. For, indeed, at the out- 
set of the investigations here to be recorded, I had no 
opinions worth mentioning either as to the meaning 
of the facts of actual life or as to the nature of truth 
itself. I destroyed all the notes in which I had re- 
corded my arguments for or against the theories of 
some of my notable predecessors ; banished all books 
from my study; and with no implements further 



viii PREFACE 

than pencil and spotless paper, a few brass pins, and 
a tennis-ball, I set about enquiring seriously into the 
destiny of man. I even tried to forget who they 
were that had said anything on the subject before, or 
that there were such things as jealousies and fashions 
in philosophy. 

In this, of course, I was attempting the impossible. 
One cannot speculate on the political destiny of a 
race or on the material destiny of an atom wholly 
without regard to the individual investigators 
who have supplied such data as one may use. 
Nevertheless, some advantages appeared to lie in the 
elimination, as far as possible, of personal and his- 
torical considerations: as, notably, (1) conciseness, 
(2) the preservation of an attitude as little as possible 
controversial, and (3) the implied denial that the 
results of any philosophic thought need be meas- 
ured by the amount of approval they receive or by 
their immediate influence upon the lives of men, or 
that to achieve either individual success or the 
melioration of mankind upon Earth is in the least 
necessary as a motive of such thought. 

My enquiry complete and reduced to writing, I 
was warned that my exposition would be found 
lacking in lucidity by the general reader and philo- 
sophical student because in it no attempt was made 
to show the relation of the doctrine to the history 
of opinion. It was deemed inadvisable to " dismiss " 
— as I was accused of doing — with a few para- 



PREFACE ix 

graphs so large a subject, for example, as Con- 
sciousness, leaving unconsidered the numerous and 
thoughtfully elaborated theories that have risen 
around it. 

Were I to admit the probable truth of this warn- 
ing, the wisdom of heeding it would still be quite 
another matter. If, reader, you are accustomed to 
regard a philosophical essay as a kind of intellectual 
exercise leading nowhere in particular but affording 
you the opportunity of pleasantly overhauling and 
dispassionately comparing the appropriate items 
from out your stores of knowledge — if, in short, 
you are above all a liver and a reader, unalterably 
convinced of the solidity of the facts of actual life, 
you will in any case get nothing from my exposition, 
and I need not cater to you. If, on the other hand, 
you are determined to draw from your experience of 
life and books that which is workable and relevant 
to the future; if you are above all a thinker and 
eager only to build for yourself and others a rational 
basis for faith and action, I think you will agree with 
me, after reading to the end, that no advantage 
could lie in connecting the points of my doctrine 
specifically with those of other doctrines unless, 
indeed, this were done in a thoroughgoing fashion 
such as I at least should be incapable of. For I 
have, in the course of my constructive work, taken 
account by implication of every theory of life, 
matter, and thought that is known to me; and 



x PREFACE 

though I have occasionally, and for the sake of 
brevity, alluded to a theory by its commonly ac- 
cepted name, I have generally thought it unnecessary, 
and on the whole unsuitable, to define my attitude 
towards any theory more fully than is implied in the 
results of this constructive work. 

For example, I may again mention my treatment 
of the problem of Consciousness. Some time ago 
I used to regard the conscious self as a thing apart 
and cover whole reams with definitions of it and 
speculations as to its origin. At present my task 
is quite different. This whole book is, for one thing, 
designed to provide rational grounds for belief in a 
certain general principle of which one expression, 
though by no means the most interesting, is u Con- 
sciousness is not a thing apart nor an essential prop- 
erty of, or resident in, anything; it is a symbol 
popular in the present age." If these grounds of 
belief have indeed been provided, a single sentence 
is sufficient to account for the origin of the term 
Consciousness, and for our traditional conception of 
this faculty as belonging to some things and not to 
others, and to some things in greater degree than to 
others. This whole book, then, is about Conscious- 
ness, although the term itself seldom appears. But 
if I have failed to make clear to you the general 
theory, no specific criticisms from me of other 
theories of Consciousness would be worth your while. 
From my own point of view they would be sheer 



PREFACE xi 

redundancies ; nay more, they would be in the nature 
of an apology such as I do not feel called upon to 
make. 

The same would be true of any discussion in these 
pages of specific doctrines of divinity, world-will, 
or of any other universal or extra-universal force 
that has been cast for the classic role of final cause. 

Hence — even though I should admit, in the case 
of more special treatises, the expediency of a more 
conventional method — I cannot see that the general 
unity of my doctrine would be rendered more in- 
telligible by any effort of mine to assign to each 
phase of it a place in the history of thought. 

As an aid to the presentation of this general doc- 
trine, I will here define a certain liberty that is to be 
taken with the terms, theory and practice, in the 
ensuing pages. 

In traditional speech a practical idea is generally 
understood as a useful one; as an idea which may, 
with advantage to somebody, be immediately in- 
corporated in practice; whilst a theoretical idea, 
whether presumably sound or unsound, is under- 
stood as one belonging primarily to the realm of 
abstract speculation and not necessarily related to 
practice. To this usage I make no objection: it 
possesses obvious advantages of convenience. But, 
for the purposes of this work, it will be found de- 
sirable to keep the teleological aspect of the terms 



xii PREFACE 

in question generally uppermost. By practice, then, 
will be understood that which must eventually be 
replaced by new and different practice ; by theory, 
that which may conceivably be translated into 
practice. In these pages theory shall cease to be 
theory when one of two things happens: when it 
shows itself finally incapable of translation into 
practice, or when it has actually been translated 
into practice. By practice will be understood human 
practice ; but its relation to theory, as here defined, 
will be repeated in the relation to theory of all other 
cosmic processes. A theory of electricity, for ex- 
ample, would be one which, for anything we knew to 
the contrary, might correctly describe electricity; 
and if we ever came to know that it either could not 
or actually did describe electricity, it would cease to 
be theory. 

This verbal innovation need mislead nobody. 
Nevertheless it requires justification, — and will be 
justified in the first chapter, — for it not only im- 
plies the time-honoured assumption that all things 
change, but raises the question, What are these 
things that change ? Observe, in passing, some of its 
implications. 

Something, not realised as yet but indefinitely 
ascertainable, will be the practice of the future to 
the exclusion of actual practice. That something 
I choose to call the subject of theoretical thought 
or, more loosely, theory. 



PREFACE xiii 

When we speak of the revival of an old practice, 
we speak as becomes people living in a world which 
may be apprehended by them only in its successive 
strata of appearances. Here is a hammer, and it is 
good to hammer with. Of this much I seem sure ; 
and if I must hammer with it, this much is sufficient. 
But if I wish to make a better hammer, I must go 
deeper into the matter and consider that the useful- 
ness of the one I now have lies in the fact of its having 
a wooden handle and an iron head. Herein is a 
difference between wood and iron, and I ought to 
ascertain the nature and extent of this difference. 
I can weigh them and test their comparative tough- 
ness. Along comes somebody who takes my iron 
and melts it and shows me a lot of things it may do 
that I had never dreamt of. He explains to me the 
standing of its atom in the society of atoms, and he 
even tells me something of the internal organisation 
of this atom. At which point he stops, because he 
can go no farther towards the basis of iron in reality. 
But he has already taken me so far that I can 
never again look at a hammer in quite the same light, 
but must admit that it is only with reference to the 
business of hammering that a hammer may be called 
such ; and that, if the reality behind it ever came to 
be so well understood that the need to hammer no 
longer existed, nobody but an antiquary would think 
of calling it a hammer. 

The case of the revival of an old practice is simi- 



xiv PREFACE 

lar and still more obvious. By analysis of the new 
practice we have never found that it was, in any 
factor or in all, equal to the old. Moreover, none of 
its factors could be equal to the old, for they belong 
to a different period of time and have all been de- 
termined in part by events subsequent to the death 
of the old practice. What we think we know of 
either the old or the new practice is, however, very 
little as compared with what we know we do not 
know of it. Our admitted ignorance of the events 
that culminated respectively in the one and the 
other is all but complete. Since the two appear- 
ances resulting thus from processes largely unknown 
bear similar relations to the peculiar thought of the 
age or race, we find it convenient to classify them as 
" likes." Sometimes we use the word "identical." 
Any extra-terrestrial contemporary of ours who 
had learned something of our family history, yet was 
unaware that different practices often appeared to us 
similar, would nevertheless guess this to be the case ; 
for it would seem to him probable that any intelli- 
gence in which heredity counted for much would 
continue for long periods to respond to the same 
influences determining the character of events. 
That is to say, it would be determined by influences 
derived from events whose local relation to the 
proximately ancestral intelligence was immediate. 
Ignoring the vastly greater number of influences 
which, if known, would reveal the universal diversity 



PREFACE xv 

of events, the possessors of this intelligence must 
regard certain events as preeminently similar. 

The universal diversity implied in the law of con- 
tinuous change is a subject that will be frequently 
recurred to in these pages. For the moment, we 
may be content to conjecture that it would not sur- 
prise our extra-terrestrial critic to learn that a 
dozen of us might walk through a wood and agree 
that it was a very monotonous walk, while the dog 
that accompanied us and came upon twenty different 
scents found in it a fascinating variety; or, on the 
other hand, that the dog might be greatly bored with 
looking over his master's shoulder as he read. For 
he would suspect that the history of men or of dogs 
would repeat itself indefinitely during such period 
as purely ancestral ideas might maintain an over- 
whelming prominence in terrestrial thought. 

Another warning: my language at times be- 
comes colloquial. This is emphatically a serious 
work, and dignity or gravity of attitude has- no 
place in the execution of it. In another place 
(Chap. IX) I shall try to point out some of the 
dangers to the serious thinker inherent in any effort 
to maintain the dignity of himself or of his subject; 
also to account for the esteem that is generally ac- 
corded to dignity of attitude in certain professions. 

Since I have at the outset been forced into a 
monitory attitude, I should perhaps try to give in a 



xvi PREFACE 

few words some further positive idea of the method 
followed in this philosophy. Briefly, then, its central 
motif is expressed in the two following paragraphs. 

Any doctrine of a final cause is shown to be not 
merely unsatisfactory by reason of its incompleteness 
but to be untenable even provisionally, since the 
cause, to exist as such, could have no contact with 
our universe unless it were identified with it and so 
ceased to be a cause. This conclusion is arrived at 
logically; and logic itself is shown to lose its com- 
petence as absolute truth is approached. Never- 
theless, logic may enable us to reject a doctrine which 
logic has supplied. And the fact that logic has 
driven the vast majority of mankind to accept, in 
one form or another, the doctrine of a final cause and 
to cling to it — not confidently but desperately, 
with doubts, differences, exceptions, backsliding — 
through many generations is shown to furnish an 
additional reason for rejecting this doctrine. If a 
final cause is both inconceivable and useless as a 
hypothesis, intermediate causes are equally so; 
thus causation becomes merely a convenient manner 
of speaking doomed, even as such, to desuetude. 

Bereft of causation as a means of accounting for 
the facts or illusions of existence — which is surely 
one expression of the avowed aim of philosophy — 
we have to look about us and enquire what is ap- 
parent in this existence. And there appear to be 
(1) Things, such as matter and ideas, and (2) a 



PREFACE xvii 

Process or Processes. But the same logic which 
forced us to eliminate causation (which might be 
numbered (3)) convinces us that (1) and (2) cannot 
exist otherwise than identically; and, for present 
suggestiveness of terms, we give to existence or the 
universe the name of Process. This process is 
described as consisting in the successive manifesta- 
tion of all possible differences or illusions until 
perfect truth is attained. It is unconditioned by 
space or time, which are but two of its illusions ; and 
when absolute truth gives place to absolute error, 
the process remains the same in that fixity which 
implies its complete diversity. 

Here, as I have said, is one statement of that 
central motif of the philosophy which will, in the 
course of these pages, be presented from a number of 
different points of view. And in a number of ways 
will be expressed the optimism of the philosopher — 
all of them different from the glowing phrases as- 
sociated with that obsolescent mental bias which 
commonly goes by the name of optimism. 

The book itself is divided as follows: 

Chapter I shows the origin of the theory in common 
knowledge as well as some of its general implications. 

In Chapter II are reviewed the principles which 
seem to underlie man's social, political, and intel- 
lectual life and moral ideals. This is done in the form 
of an enquiry into the possible destiny of his various 
activities, viewed in the light of their past. 



xviii PREFACE 

In Chapter III is considered the universe of 
matter and ether. An elementary universe (i.e. a 
universe in which matter has not been evolved) is 
postulated, as different as possible from every hy- 
pothetical universe whose relation to human thought 
is most obviously illusory according to the principles 
developed in this one and the earlier chapters. The 
postulated universe is, in other words, a " chaotic" 
one which may be indefinitely maintained in thought 
throughout its emergence from chaos to become the 
possible home of matter possessing apparent geo- 
metrical form. 

With these first three chapters the philosophy is 
complete — complete, it will be understood, in its 
theoretical and generally practical aspects. No 
further development of the theory should be looked 
for in the remaining six chapters, the purpose of 
which is to help to define the general trend of the 
theory and the probable consequences of its adoption 
by mankind. 

In Chapter IV, I have endeavoured to point out 
the true importance of the problems of Reason and 
Will. 

Chapter V shows the bearing of this philosophy 
upon the special theory of dissolution. 

Chapter VI deals with the relation between life 
and death. 

Chapter VII treats of the manner of life of any 
terrestrial race who should hold as rational a view 



PREFACE xix 

of death as is now attainable. In it this philosophy 
is seen at work amongst a hypothetical race in all 
respects like the present generation of mankind, 
save that their intellectual and political leaders have 
made this philosophy their own. 

Chapter VIII contains a series of random obser- 
vations upon life as we know it, and treats of the 
uses of rational pessimism. 

Chapter IX contains some remarks on literary 
style and other questions of taste and criticism. 

A word, finally, as to the claims to be made for 
this philosophy. Its basis has already been pro- 
claimed to be the principle of continuous and uni- 
versal change; notice has been given that the 
universe would be found not as a thing but as a 
process. And it is not contended that this principle 
of change, as here set forth, is a complete and 
perfect truth. Such a contention would of course 
amount to repudiation of the principle itself, as 
would also the contention that any one of us to-day 
may represent to himself concretely how change 
may take place if there is no thing to change. 

What will be claimed for this principle is that, 

(1) It is inevitably derived from experience up to 
date. 

(2) It is the most general and abstract of all 
principles and, as such, permits of the utmost pos- 
sible amount of filling in of detail, at the same time 



xx PREFACE 

that it is incapable of being undermined by new 
knowledge. That is to say, it is a fixed principle by 
virtue of its being capable of the utmost possible 
amount of that modification which is necessary to 
give it meaning. 

(3) In the light of its implications the abandon- 
ment of outworn practices and prepossessions be- 
comes an obvious duty. Specifically, it is the only 
weapon competent to overcome those influences in 
human society which admittedly make for the most 
irrational conduct, — i.e. it is the only aid to a 
rational view of death and suffering. 

We are to begin with a synopsis of the philosophy 
in its general aspect. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Preface v 

CHAPTER I 
Illusion and Reality 

The two truths of highest probability 1 

Significance in experience . . . . . . . 5 

Change 6 

Matter 7 

Substance 8 

Ideas 11 

Time and Space .13 

Change homogeneous 14 

Change without antecedent, beginning, or end ... 15 

Impossible illusions 15 

Illusion and reality 16 

Change a fixed principle 17 

The order of illusions 18 

Change and geometry 19 

Recapitulation 21 

CHAPTER II 
The Knowing 

Egoism and altruism 24 

In politics 24 

In considerations of property 41 

In the pursuit of fame 43 

In vices of the senses 43 

In love 44 

In all acts judged by ethical standards .... 48 

Practice of an art for its own sake ; the pursuit of knowledge 49 

xxi 



xxii TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 



The test of applicability 55 

What are egoism and altruism ? 56 

The knowing ' . . . .58 

How the process of gaining new experience appears to us of 

to-day 59 

Destiny of the knowing 61 

The perfect knower 62 

May all the knowable be known ? 68 

Thought imperishable 69 

Cumulative efficiency of thought- and matter-effects . 71 

Evolution and heredity 75 

The ultra-evolutionary necessity 77 

Time and ultra-evolutionary advantages . 80 

Terrestrial knowledge evolutionary in character . . 81 

Impossibility of universal devolution .... 82 

CHAPTER III 
The Fiction of a Universe 

Necessity of physical and mathematical symbols ... 84 

Man a " born metaphysician " 85 

The universe of one dimension 86 

Preliminary survey of the " cosmon " 92 

The sole attribute of the "cosmoids" . . . . .94 

K\ and the earliest motions of the cosmoids .... 96 

The reality behind the cosmoid 101 

The correspondence between the " real " and the " apparent " 

cosmoid 109 

Careers of the apparent cosmoids 113 

The " centre-change " 116 

The centre-change and the surrounding cosmon . . . 118 

Self-assertiveness of the ultimate principle .... 124 

The geometrical point . 127 

The illusory "thing" postulated for the apprehension of motion 129 

Systems of supply for centre-changes 131 

Numbers and the symbolical cosmon 153 

Mobile centre-changes and their inertia 157 



TABLE OF CONTENTS xxiii 



PAOE 



Mutual attraction of centre-changes . . . . .158 

The spatial necessity in the cosmon 161 

" Stable groups " 165 

The "primary rotation" 166 

Relative mobility of stable groups 167 

" Association " and " dissociation " 170 

Relative stability of groups 173 

Stable groups and certain attributes of matter . . . 174 

Necessity of vibration of stable groups 175 

The spiral line of motion of stable groups and the straight 

line .177 

Tha geometrical point of view 185 

How a stable group would appear to an evolutionary being . 189 

Vibration of stable groups 194 

Elimination of waves of vibratory modifications : preliminary 

survey 201 

Rotary vibrations in response to conflicting inducements; 

changes of rotary position without change of position 

in cosmic rows ; revolutions of leagues of stable groups 

about one another 209 

Rotation upon an axis 218 

The formation of spherical bodies in the cosmon . . . 241 
Description in one-dimensional terms of the Earth's rotation 

upon its axis 242 

Elimination of vibratory waves (continued) .... 248 
Rotary vibrations of stable groups arising from reciprocal 

modifications of primary rotations . . • . . 252 

_,, j heat, light, chemism . 252 

Ether waves and the phenomena of < , , . ; . n ^ n 

( electricity, magnetism 253 

One-dimensional nature abhors a vacuum .... 254 

A twofold guess as to the significance of the symbols used 

in treating of the one-dimension universe . . . 255 

Implications of motions of stable groups .... 256 

Magnitude in the cosmon 262 

Relation between the symbolical cosmon and its inventor . 263 

Summary 266 

Terminology . 268 



xxiv TABLE OF CONTENTS 

CHAPTER IV 
Reason and Will 

PAGE 

The meaning of consciousness 269 

How a thing may be aware of itself 272 

True importance of the problems of Reason and Will . . 273 

The will to live 274 

CHAPTER V 

Devolution 

The conscientious carmen 278 

Problematical future effect of man upon the evolutionary 

process 279 

Annihilation and afterwards 281 

The ultra-evolutionary look-out 284 

The developing hand of time 284 

CHAPTER VI 
A Rational View of Death 

Posterity and suicide 286 

The gain in gaiety and the loss in bliss 288 

If I die this day, what next? 289 

Relation between the ultra-evolutionary self and the evolu- 
tionary 290 

Emotional aspect of the case 291 

The process of gathering 293 

The marriage of pain and pleasure, and the family of events 295 

The miserable and the rule of destiny 296 

" Those good old days when we were so unhappy ; " sinister 

implications of the word " again " . . . .297 

Evolutionary benefits inherent in the word " again " . . 299 

Paradise and the kinematograph 300 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XXV 



CHAPTER VII 



Immediate Implications of a Rational View of Death 



The achievements of morality 
A rational society 

The case of its drunkards 

The case of its amorists 

The case of its liars . 

The case of its brawlers 

The case of its invalids 
The rational society not impossible 
The rational society not millennial . 
The rational society not to be had for the asking 



PAGE 

301 
304 
305 
314 
319 
319 
320 
321 
328 
332 



CHAPTER VIII 

The Love of Truth 

How the love of truth may be denned 348 

Our racial belief in the supernatural 350 

Instances of the love of truth 353 

The honest theorist as an everyday liar 357 

Conservatism vs. Radicalism 362 

The processes of nature and of civilisation alike irreversible . 364 

" Lead me to the precipice " 365 

Theory, superstitions, and laboratories 366 

The snubbing of theory 368 

The menace of words 369 

The wisdom of age 369 

The plum tree of civilisation 371 



CHAPTER IX 

Style and the Philosophy 

Certainties and probabilities : a recapitulation . . . 376 

Long sentences . 378 

The generic "we" 379 

The rationale of dignity 383 



TABLE OF DIAGRAMS 

PAGE 

Figure 1 92 

Figure 2 98 

Figure 3 98 

Figure 4 98 

Figure 5 99 

Figure 6 117 

Figure 7 119 

Figure 8 123 

Figure 9 124 

Figure 10 138 

Figure 11 143 

Figure 12 145 

Figure 13 149 

Figure 14 151 

Figure 15 . .162 

Figure 16 163 

Figure 17 164 

Figure 18 164 

Figure 19 223 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

CHAPTER I 

ILLUSION AND REALITY 

From the study of history, from the review and 
comparison of our own individual experiences, and 
from the results of all special scientific and philo- 
sophic research, we draw two conclusions or truths 
possessing, of all truths, the highest probability. 
In all ages they have been more or less clearly recog- 
nised and variously stated by men of the most widely 
different tempers and environments. Roughly speak- 
ing, they have acquired greater prominence almost 
continuously with the lapse of time; and one of the 
distinguishing features of the present age is the new 
boldness of relief in which these truths stand forth 
for every curious person to view. One of them, the 
first here to be mentioned, might be discussed at 
indefinite length, although one of the advantages 
of living in the twentieth century is that a brief 
statement of this truth with a few illustrations suffice 
to awaken the echoes in common knowledge. The 
second truth is generally regarded as self-evident 
and does not appear to permit of much discussion. 



2 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

(1) Every particular experience is illusory. 

This familiar object, the pencil I now hold in my 
hand, is not merely a complete mystery to me. It 
is not merely that I am in doubt as to which of my 
ideas of its form, the materials of which it is made, 
their relations to one another, etc., are true ones. 
I know, if I know anything, that form, materials, 
relation, etc., are all entirely different from what 
they appear to me ; that the latest or most intimate 
knowledge of wood and graphite in a pencil provides 
for its own abdication in favour of other knowledge. 
I know, moreover, that the real form, materials, 
and relation — supposing them to exist — could not 
appear to me at all. 

The chemist dealing with his old friend, the atom 
of hydrogen, is in a similar case, for he knows that 
the familiar behaviour of this atom is merely the 
particular illusion which corresponds to the compe- 
tence of his five senses and many instruments. If 
his senses and instruments were fundamentally 
different, — and he knows that senses and instru- 
ments have not remained, and cannot be expected to 
remain the same, — the behaviour of an atom of 
hydrogen would be something that could not be 
spoken or thought of by any but a historian. 

The arithmetician contemplating two pebbles 
knows that there is far better reason to regard the 
universe as one than the pebbles as two. All por- 
tions of his pebbles should, then, be as intimately 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 3 

and significantly related as all portions of either one 
of them. But he had in the pebbles themselves the 
best of reasons for repudiating the plural. For, know- 
ing the pebbles to be illusory, he must deny his poor 
understanding any significance whatever if he persist 
in regarding as valid the two. 

My conception of a past event, a fact, whether 
derived from memory or from reading of it in a book, 
fails to equal anybody else's conception of the same 
event because I know that my own mind is just as 
certainly not the other person's mind as it is not ex- 
clusively my own. And what of the fact conceived ? 
Supposing it was " John went to London," and that a 
thousand people saw him go, — it is impossible that 
any of these people should have known what this 
John was that went, nor if his going was any more 
of a going than if he had remained where he was. 
On the contrary, nothing can be more certain than 
that John and his going and his destination were 
not what they appeared to be nor where. 

The first conclusion of highest probability is, then, 
that we not only do not know anything certainly of 
particular experiences, but that we cannot even be 
guessing them aright. 

When we come to groups of particular experiences, 
this high probability is sensibly reduced. My pencil, 
to be sure, and the chemist's atom of hydrogen 
constitute groups of experiences; yet, the further 
these groups are extended, the more difficult does 



4 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

it become to discredit all positive statements about 
them. 

For example, though I admit my incompetence to 
define any of the consequences of my brother be- 
coming a thief, I assert my competence to predict 
that, if mankind continues to exist upon Earth for a 
certain space under conditions tolerably similar to 
present conditions, certain things will happen whose 
significance may form the subject of legitimate posi- 
tive statements. 

Nor shall anybody tell me that I know better than 
to make a positive statement about altruism. 

Mankind, as we regard it, is a small thing in the 
universe, and so is altruism. The statements that 
may safely be made about either are perhaps of the 
slenderest and sketchiest nature; nevertheless, they 
are neither necessarily negative nor certainly illusory. 

Hence we must conclude that, though every single 
experience is illusory in its particular aspect, it 
may not be so in some aspect which it shares with 
other experiences. 

Let us pass on to the second truth of highest 
probability. 

(2) Experience, illusory though it be in every par- 
ticular, must nevertheless possess some significance. 

Otherwise we could not have drawn our first con- 
clusion of highest probability. 

Otherwise it could never have occurred to us to 
attack the problem of existence. 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 

Not only do I recognise the necessity of some 
significance in this pencil from my point of view, 
but I must recognise the same necessity in any con- 
siderations, from my brother's point of view, that 
should impel him to become a thief. For I must 
attribute some significance to my brother and to the 
possibility of becoming a thief. And in precisely 
similar fashion must I attribute significance to the 
careers of those waves of the steaming sea that 
preceded, any creatures capable of perceiving them 
through sight or touch. For they must have had their 
successive starting-points from which to encounter 
new illusions just as I and my brother now have. 

Once significance in experience is recognised, it 
becomes the obvious and rational thing to do to try 
and discover wherein this significance lies. This 
endeavour cannot, of course, end in the discovery 
of a perfect truth, since all the illusions that go to 
make up experience are in themselves now insoluble. 
But it should at least result in some kind of posi- 
tive statement representing the competence or rela- 
tive fulness of experience up to date. 

Since any positive statement of a particular na- 
ture may be effectually contradicted whilst it is less 
easy to contradict positive statements relating to 
groups of illusions, it seems inevitable that the 
greatest significance will be found in statements that 
relate to the greatest number of illusions. 

Let us enquire what is thus positively significant. 



6 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Change is significant, for change is everywhere. 
It is at least as general an attribute of our apparent 
universe as any that can be named or thought of. 
Whether or not permanence is also a general attribute 
of this universe, we may at least deny that either 
man or the objects of his experience could have any 
existence in which Change was not involved. 

Our solar system could never be wholly deprived 
of heat or of motion as a whole, nor join with other 
systems to bring about such a death while matter 
existed for such systems to be made up of. 

Nor could mind come to rest in perfect calm with- 
out ceasing to be mind. A mind from which such 
forms of Change, at least, as contemplation and re- 
flection were absent would be most literal nonsense. 

There is Change, then, in motion and in what we 
call rest; Change in life, in the granite, and the 
deep-embedded diamond. Recent experiments have 
shown us that every atom of matter is itself the seat 
of tremendous bustle apart from the impulses trans- 
mitted to it from other atoms. As for us humans, 
the more of obvious and superficial change we enjoy 
at any time, the more depressing is both the pros- 
pect and the realisation of a less varied existence. 
For any approach to monotony of experience we must 
draw on our imagination, since it is not actually 
to be found in the lives of our fellow-men. The life 
of the indolent hermit or of the imprisoned criminal 
does not differ in very many respects from that 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 7 

of the active man of the world, yet this difference is 
often sufficient to account for the derangement of 
health or reason in them who lead the simpler life. 

In sum, — from the particular illusions of our 
experience we derive Change as a general and sig- 
nificant principle of the apparent universe. 

We have now to enquire what else is significant. 

Things, perhaps, such as matter or substance, and 
ideas. 

It is obvious that these two categories, substance 
and ideas, must at best possess far less significance, 
separately or taken together, than Change. For we 
have never been able to agree that either or both 
of them were everywhere. In fact, most of us re- 
gard them as confined to very tiny portions of the 
apparent universe. In the ether, we all agree, is 
Change; but we rarely hear anybody say he has 
good reason to believe that the ether is a substance 
or that there is a substance in the ether. On the 
other hand, they are quite as rare who pretend to 
have discovered ideas in the rocks and waves of the 
seashore. The significance of Things, then, appears 
to be either slight or altogether dubious at the out- 
set. 

Nevertheless, in most particular occurrences upon 
Earth, we do not conceive Change apart from 
Things. The phenomena of electricity and mag- 
netism cannot very satisfactorily be conceived as 



8 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

related immediately and throughout to Things, yet 
a Thing is generally implied in their practical out- 
come. And in the vast preponderance of the affairs 
of daily life, it is a Thing — i.e. an idea or a material 
object — that appears to change. Hence we should 
test the claim of Things to significance. Let us begin 
with matter or substance. 

Recent experiments in electrical science have 
shown us that the atoms of matter are both divisible 
and disruptible, and that their constituent parts 
are not material nor, so far as known, suggestive of 
any other kind of hypothetical substance. An atom 
is found to consist of a number of units of negative 
electricity separated by " empty space" and re- 
volving about a central core or "ion" concerning 
which nothing positive is known. It is clear, how- 
ever, that this "ion" cannot itself be an atom. In 
the light of this, discovery, the "elements " of matter 
have lost all meaning in any discussion of a first 
principle, and "matter" itself has persisted solely 
as a convenient manner of speaking. For nobody 
now pretends that matter is the ultimate basis of 
phenomena or is anything else than a complex ap- 
pearance involved in the appearances that we call 
phenomena. 

With matter bereft of that ultimate or basic 
quality which was formerly assigned to it, we find it 
exceedingly difficult to speak of "substance" at all. 
Hitherto we have always been so impressed with 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 9 

the tangible, visible, ponderable, impenetrable 
character of the illusions which have constituted 
nearly the whole concern of our lives throughout 
thousands of generations, that it has seemed only 
natural to assume some kind of substance in places 
where matter was not but somehow ought to be. 
Now, though, the assumption seems entirely gra- 
tuitous. 

However, it is impossible to forget that we are the 
present culmination of those thousands of genera- 
tions who were too busy or greedy, too pious or lazy, 
to invent electrical machines. First and foremost 
we belong to our forefathers. Hence we should test 
the claims of "substance" as if it were the most 
rational assumption possible. 

All that can be intelligibly postulated of Substance 
is permanence, for it is now out of the question to 
assign to it any of the other properties of matter. 
What we are to regard, then, as the possible basis of 
the ether (or perhaps as the ether itself) and of 
electrons and eventually of matter itself, is a Per- 
manent Thing whose existence may contain innumer- 
able vicissitudes whilst its nature remains unaltered. 

In the first place, let us assume that there is but 
one kind of substance. In this case the unit of Sub- 
stance will be 

(1) the universe itself, or 

(2) the least portion of the universe, or 

(3) something between the two. 



10 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Under (1), Substance could experience no vicis- 
situdes within itself nor indeed in any way what- 
soever unless there were another and heterogeneous 
universe outside of Substance. In other words, the 
Change, of which we are aware in all the illusions of 
our experience, could possess no significance. This is 
contrary to our conclusions of highest probability. 

Under (2), the units of Substance would be exactly 
alike except in respect of the vicissitudes of their 
careers. That is to say, omniscience itself could not 
include the power to distinguish them except through 
their changes of position. Such Substance would, 
then, be dependent for its significance exclusively 
upon Change, and any units that were permanent 
in any respect would be meaningless in every re- 
spect. 

Under (3), the same would always be true if all 
the units were alike, and sometimes true if, within 
different classes, all units were alike. In the latter 
case, units might sometimes lack permanence, hence 
could never have possessed it. If all the units 
differed among themselves, there must either be 
very few units (which would be a case similar to (1)), 
or else there must be a very great diversity of units. 
In the latter case, the more volatile units would flock 
by themselves, leaving the less volatile units to their 
own devices. The universe would then be like a 
continuously shaded and unchanging spectrum; and 
there could be nothing in Permanence competent 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 11 

to upset this arrangement which would amount to 
a state of rest. 

If there were more than one kind of Substance, 
there would be more than one kind of Permanence 
— i.e. more than one universe. 

Neither matter nor substance, then, can possess 
any fundamental significance. Matter is a con- 
venient name for certain complex appearances in- 
volved in the phenomena that constitute the bulk 
of our particular experiences. And substance is 
another name given to the basis of matter itself and 
to those immaterial media through which phenomena 
are apparently produced. 

Change alone is significant in the iron of the 
hammer, in the magnetic waves in the ether, and 
in the " empty space" within the atom. And when 
I stated in the preface that this first principle of 
the universe was incapable of being undermined 
by new knowledge, I spoke legitimately, as from 
the standpoint of a race who had never heard of 
Substance and could no more think of inventing 
it than they could think of inventing dragons — 
which, after all, could not be dragons — to explain 
meteoric phenomena. 

When we come to seek a fundamental significance 
in Ideas, we encounter the same obstacles as in the 
case of Substance. 

In recognising that, of all the testimony of our 



12 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

experience, Change alone possessed universal sig- 
nificance, we implied that all the contents or appar- 
ently separate portions of the universe were insepa- 
rably allied by this principle. We could no longer 
regard any particular manifestation of Change as 
isolated from any other such manifestation. For 
example, the relation of the stone to the mountain- 
side down which it is rolling is no more significant 
than its relation to the nearest fixed star, for the star 
is just as essential a condition of its change of ap- 
parent position as is the mountain. 

Ideas, then, must be similarly interdependent 
and incapable of being isolated from one another or 
from the most remote appearances of the Substance- 
world. Each Idea exists solely by virtue of the 
change in its relation to all other Ideas and Sub- 
stance-appearances. The Idea of a pebble is con- 
ditioned by all other pebbles and Ideas of them. 
An Idea of altruism is conditioned by the equally 
general Ideas of egoism, humanity, love, etc., all 
of which are continuously changing. The existing 
Idea of Change is conditioned by the equally gen- 
eral Idea of the Impossible, and is made up of the 
invariably unexploited (i.e. lacking complete expe- 
rience) factors in particular Ideas and Subtance- 
appearances. An Idea cannot endure ; it is continu- 
ously being supplanted. No two persons have ever 
had the same Idea of altruism, although either might 
perhaps have made a justifiable positive statement 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 13 

about altruism to which the other could agree from 
his own equally justifiable point of view — the agree- 
ment resulting in an apparent practical advantage to 
somebody. Nor has any one person had the same 
Idea in two different moments of time, even the Idea 
of Change being conditioned by successive particular 
experiences. 

Ideas, in sum, are not Things Changing but Change. 
And the same is, of course, true of conscious selves and 
of any other form of activity involving body-matter, 
brain-matter, substance-appearances, and ideas. 

Even without the aid of formal logic, the choice 
between Change and Things was an easy one; for 
we cannot get on at all without Change, whereas 
we have never had any good reason to believe in 
Things in General or in any one Thing in Particular, 
so we can give them up without a qualm. 

Consulting again our illusory experience, do we 
find anything else possessing general significance ? 

There are Time and Space, to be sure ; but, now that 
we have got rid of Things, we identify them unhesi- 
tatingly with one another and with Change. For 
apart from the Change manifested in vision, touch, 
or any reciprocal action, as between the rocks and 
waves of the seashore, they could have no existence. 

Is there anything else in our experience that ap- 
pears to possess some general significance ? 

There is nothing. 



14 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

We have now to discuss Change itself and its rela- 
tion as a whole to the impenetrable particular illu- 
sions of human and other experience. 

In the first place, there cannot be more than one 
kind of change ; i.e. the change manifested in a mag- 
netic wave or in the wearing down of a river's bed 
cannot be different from the change manifested in 
a politician's reflections on the events of the day. 
For if change here differed from change because of 
the difference in its manifestations, there must be 
as many different kinds of change as there are mani- 
festations of it. In other words, change would then 
exist as a mass of unrelated particulars and could 
never have suggested itself as possessing any general 
significance. But if change here differed from change 
because its seats, the ether, the river-bed, and the 
mind of the politician, belong to two or to three 
essentially different classes of things, it is obvious 
that Change is not in question but Things Changing, 
which we have seen to be impossible. It is, then, 
inevitable that qualitative differences in experi- 
ence (i.e. in the manifestations of Change) consist in 
what we call " quantitative " differences in ultimate 
Change itself; or, to use a more suitable term, they 
consist in differences of position in the fixed order 
of Change. One purpose of the universe of one 
dimension postulated in Chapter III is to show how 
differences in experience may be thus quantitatively 
conceived. 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 15 

Moreover, Change cannot be derived from some- 
thing else, for the act of derivation would merge 
its antecedent with itself. One illusion may follow 
upon others; but Change itself could not, say, be 
created by something immutable, for the immutable 
thing would become Change in the act of creation. 
Nor, for the same reason, could there ever be any 
interaction between the two. 

Similarly, Change could have no kind of beginning 
or end. If it began, it must already have been 
Change by virtue of the beginning; if it ended, the 
ending would show that it still existed. 

Furthermore, Change does not manifest itself in 
the impossible. For example, it may, in this year 
1908 a.d. upon Earth, manifest itself in my illusory 
idea of a three-footed hen ; but it may not manifest 
itself in an illusory three-footed hen which, like the 
illusory two-footed hens, lays illusory eggs with 
which illusory hunger may be appeased. For we 
take account of illusions without knowing what they 
are or what we are that take such account; other- 
wise we should not be concerned with this problem 
of existence. And at the end of next December 
we can be certain that amongst all the illusory hens 
of the year there has not been a single one with three 
feet. Change, then, must manifest itself in all pos- 
sible illusions, there being a reason indefinitely com- 
prehensible in Change itself for the non-manifesta- 
tion of such as three-footed hens. Of this anon. 



16 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

But meanwhile, what do we mean by illusion ? 

Surely, that which is not reality. 

But there is Change in all our illusions, and we 
have seen that Change alone is significant in exist- 
ence. Is not reality then significant ? 

Reality is indeed significant, as the limit of exist- 
ence. When all illusions have been manifested, 
reality will then be significant as the limit of all the 
possible, do-able, changeable. It is obvious that it 
could not remain thus significant: all possible illu- 
sions must then begin, else there could be no limit 
to them. And if there were no limit to illusions, 
there could be no impossible illusions. That is to 
say, we should be confronted with the possibility 
of a three-footed hen, in every respect a hen, but 
with three feet; also with the possibility of pure- 
white blackness. Life could have no value, would 
be out of the question, on such conditions. Finding 
ourselves living and concerned with the problem 
of existence, we unhesitatingly repudiate a limitless 
universe. 

During the life of our race upon Earth we have 
seldom been willing to regard reality as a limit. 
Our habitual impulse has been to gaze out into the 
heavens and dig down into the earth in the hope of 
seizing hold of it somehow and then preserving it 
as a priceless possession. This rather emotional im- 
pulse has been as fruitful as it was inevitable. And 
we are now in a position where, by giving our more 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 17 

rational faculties free play, we may set emotion on 
edge with dread lest the ancient notion of reality be 
vindicated. For nothing can be more dismal or 
stultifying than the implications of any doctrine 
which represents our life of ceaseless change as rooted 
in an immovable bed -of fact. These implications 
will be reviewed at some length in the next chapter. 

To consider, now, the conclusion at which we have 
arrived, to wit, Reality = that which is = that 
which may not become = the impossible: 

Is this conclusion to be treated as a truth of the 
highest possible value ? 

For any practical purpose whatsoever it is of course 
desirable to treat it thus. Its own implications, 
however, render such a treatment fundamentally 
irrelevant. More appropriately may it be regarded 
as a statement made under compulsion. It is one 
form of declaration of that first principle of existence 
the recognition of which is imposed upon all who put 
to themselves any short series of obvious questions 
such as those put in this chapter. Moreover, ex- 
perience up to date shows us that no conflicting 
statement will ever be possible. But its value is 
necessarily partial, incomplete, and we have no rea- 
son to rate this value either high or low. For new 
illusions still remain to be manifested, and we know 
not what they may be, what are the possible ones. 
Change, in other words, is not yet defined. 

Hence the principle of continuous and universal 



18 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

change, as here set forth, cannot be a perfect truth, 
but is simply an abstract statement inevitably 
derived from the testimony of the illusions of com- 
mon experience which are unanimous on this point 
and on no other. It is a fixed principle by virtue 
of its being capable of the utmost possible amount 
of such modification as may give it meaning. 

Here we have seen logic forcing us to deny its 
own fundamental competence — which is the role of 
all other illusions as well. 

In the matter of values, the case of all illusions is 
the same. Whether it be a thought, an animal, or 
a mineral, any given illusion must be destitute of 
specific value. If the last illusion be termed Omnis- 
cience, or the sum of all illusions, it could have no 
standard for assigning different values to earlier 
illusions, since each is a necessary phase of the pro- 
cess so summed up. Man could be no more conge- 
nial or indispensable to Omniscience than Fish. And 
Omniscience, to be possible, must straightway be- 
come what we may term the first illusion or Chaos. 
Otherwise Change could not be defined as all possible 
illusions, and we should now have no heads to be 
bothered with it. 

Illusions, then, have order, not values — which, 
indeed, was to be stipulated in the first place of the 
manifestations of uniform change. And we can say 
a good deal about the order of illusions past and 
future: for one thing, that they must be entirely 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 19 

interdependent and that each illusion of the present 
day sums up all earlier ones in a manner which is 
inscrutable because of the imperfection of their 
relations — because, that is, of the absence of the 
remaining possible illusions which alone could estab- 
lish the particular bearing of those already mani- 
fested. Only of Change, the general principle, is 
the bearing obvious, because illusions are necessarily 
unanimous in proclaiming it. We see, furthermore, 
that the order of illusions is not reversible ; that man, 
for example, could not grow from the grave back- 
ward to the mother's breast. Such a development 
could not be human; and it could be nothing if not 
human, for the impossibility thus conceived com- 
prises every incident of a life peculiarly human. 

The order of illusions, general and particular, past 
and future, will form a considerable portion of the 
subject-matter of this book. 

The principle of continuous and universal change 
has here been treated as if derived from the two 
conclusions of highest probability that are drawn 
from experience. It may quite as well be regarded 
as determining those two conclusions, thus 



Change 



Particular experience illusory. 
Significance in all experience. 



Certain of its special implications have already 
been mentioned. A typical case, finally, is the fol- 
lowing. 



20 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

It is undoubtedly useful to prove that the sum 
of the angles of a triangle is equal to two right 
angles, when you are living in a world which you can 
as yet understand only through its superficial mani- 
festations of matter, straight lines, etc., and when 
daily needs require you to assume that things equal 
to the same thing are equal to each other. When, 
however, repeated scrutinies of the data of such a 
life force you to admit that its matter and straight 
lines must eventually, like all other appearances, 
evolve themselves first into the category of obsolete 
symbols and afterwards into that of future poten- 
tialities, and when equality comes home to you in its 
true character of practical substitute for that know- 
ledge of universal diversity which is not immediately 
available, you at once perceive the temporal char- 
acter of the properties of angles. Unless, that is, 
your business in life happens to be with angles. 
In that case, it will be hardly surprising if, before 
accepting the results of the general scrutiny of phe- 
nomena, you redouble your efforts to demonstrate the 
value of angles as a measure of these phenomena. 

It is useful to prove that a jug will hold water, 
provided there is water to be carried. If there is 
no water, of what use is the jug and how is the proof 
possible ? Yet the maker of jugs may think of the 
failing market for them and of the misery of a jugless 
humanity before he asks himself how he is to quench 
his own thirst. 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 21 

Sweet reader, let me recapitulate. For I am con- 
vinced that a fundamental principle, if it be in any 
respect novel, should be stated and restated up to 
the last limit of endurance. 

The central point now at issue in all philosophy 
concerns "to be" and "to know." If you are a 
critical philosopher with a qualitative point of view 
and forbid me to take liberties with these two verbs, 
I must reply that I have explained and justified the 
license. I must use these verbs; no others are 
available ; and I must use them in an unusual sense. 
Here is the whole matter in a nutshell : 

Throughout long centuries we have been "know- 
ing," as we say. And we must all assume that this 
knowledge possesses some significance. Eventually 
it leads us to the conviction that every particular 
contained in it is contradictory of, or finally incom- 
patible with, some other particular, except only in 
respect of Change, wherein all particulars agree. 
This agreement means that "being" is not to be 
sought after, is impossible; and that "knowing," 
even unto Omniscience, is purely a matter of Illusion 
or Change. 

Change, then, is "known" in contrast with the 
Impossible or Real, and its content is the illusions of 
everyday existence. I gain to-day a better con- 
ception (one obviously conflicting with less of the 
testimony of other experience) of a certain event 
than my brother was able to gain yesterday. Om- 



22 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

niscience will fill in all the illusory detail to which I 
am blind by reason of my position in the fixed order 
of Change. Omniscience is satisfied in the posses- 
sion of all illusions, having no jurisdiction in the 
realm of impossibilities. Omniscience will have 
nothing to do with three-footed hens, but will ex- 
plain my present conception of such a hen. 

Meanwhile we of to-day, as well as all the material 
objects of our world, embody the totality of earlier 
experience, for the principle of Change implies the 
unity of the universe, denies the possibility of Noth- 
ing, and stipulates for the thorough interaction of 
what we call matter and mind. The highest form 
of actual reason is, then, a summation of experience ; 
and the most highly conscious human being is of 
necessity a local and imperfect product of Change. 
He embodies all the elements that are making for 
the perfect summation of universal experience; yet 
he may feel hunger, anger, hatred, — may habitually 
regard an atom of hydrogen or an ethical principle 
as a fixed quantity, — because of the imperfect rela- 
tions represented by his position in the fixed order 
of illusions. Change is not yet defined. 

Here is the necessity of our situation. Its desir- 
ability will be considered (amongst other points) in 
the next chapter ; and in the third chapter will be 
considered the question, How such a situation, with 
its apparent qualitative differences, might arise. 
In neither of the next two chapters will this first 



ILLUSION AND REALITY 23 

chapter be taken for granted, nor will reference be 
made to it. This means that continuous change 
will not be assumed as the one principle of the uni- 
verse, although the further discussion of this prin- 
ciple will be abridged in consequence of this chapter. 

In Chapter II, the conceivable destinies of human 
activities are considered in the light of their past. 

In Chapter III, an elementary or " chaotic " uni- 
verse of substance is postulated, and the conceivable 
happenings in this universe are reviewed, the pos- 
sibility of substance itself being again considered. 

The remaining chapters are in the nature of cor- 
ollaries, inferences for practical purposes, etc., the 
subject-matter being still more specific, as explained 
in the preface. 



CHAPTER II 

THE KNOWING 

The practical politician, if he be a tolerably serious 
and well-meaning man, often complains that he is 
unable, while in office or out, to originate or sup- 
port such measures for the common weal as he be- 
lieves to carry a promise of enduring efficacy, — that 
he is sometimes unable even to advocate a measure of 
temporary expediency, — since, if he did so, his 
subsequent political usefulness would probably be 
impaired if not wholly destroyed. The principal in- 
fluences to some one or more of which he may on 
any given occasion assign this embarrassment of his 
effort to do what he believes to be right are well 
known. They are called the ignorant selfishness of 
those whom he represents and leads ; the exigencies 
of party dominance; the demands of patriotism; 
the demands of his own personal ambition. 

That such uncompromising politicians as have 
attempted unswervingly to combat these influences 
have failed of their highest aim is evidenced by the 
fact that the influences still exist ; whether they have 
been mitigated in some degree is a question under 
perennial discussion. To measure the extent and 

24 



THE KNOWING 25 

driving power of any one of them in successive gen- 
erations is a difficult, and to many historians a fasci- 
nating, task. But at the end of the history account 
must still be taken of the conflict between, on the 
one hand, the egoism of the ignorant, the egoism 
of the more enlightened, the egoism of party or class, 
race or nation, and, on the other hand, a certain op- 
posite or altruistic impulse. And in spite of any 
real or fancied progress towards an adjustment 
between these two contending influences, politics 
are still so far from the point to which fleet-footed 
theory would bring them that many a serious poli- 
tician has been forced to abandon his chosen voca- 
tion. Probably no man has ever said, "In politics 
I have found a career in which I am comparatively 
free to do what I believe to be right ; " whilst the con- 
trary is so often repeated as to suggest the possibility 
that, whatever improvement may have been made 
in practice itself, the gap between theory and prac- 
tice is still as wide as ever it was. 

However this may be, what course is open to the 
practical politician if his thoughts incline toward 
reform? Masses of electors, he knows, are so ig- 
norant and racially backward that the work of ad- 
vancing them by education to a par with their more 
enlightened fellows might conceivably be interrupted 
by the end of the world ; personal ambition and party 
spirit cannot be legislated away; and patriotism 
cannot be purged of selfishness by a far-sighted 



26 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

diplomacy. Sooner or later, probably, he will be 
reminded that the most successful politicians, and 
by no means necessarily the least liberal or progres- 
sive, have refused to gaze steadily into the great gulf 
that lies between theory and practice for fear of 
yielding giddily to the impulse to fling themselves 
in, as if they would close it up with their dead bodies. 
They have instead looked carefully to their own foot- 
hold from whence, keeping ever in view the dim out- 
line opposite, they have built painfully, now staying 
as best they might the hand of the destroyer, now 
lowering block upon block into the unmeasured 
void. And for knowledge of what they may owe 
in shortened labour to the bones of them who over- 
gazed their prudence, they must look to the day, 
if that day is indeed to come, when all may pass 
safely over, and the bridge itself is flooded with a 
light more powerful than science or the heavens can 
now command. 

Such admittedly is the career of politics that it 
holds out no promise of success to him who persists 
in ranting at its abuses or brooding on its futility. 
The active politician may never lose sight of the 
exigencies of actual practice. 

The case of the spectator and avowed theorist is 
somewhat different. This one, secure in his aerial 
flight, may look down into the political gulf with 
a feeling of comparative tranquillity, and may con- 
fine his attention to the task of discovering, if pos- 



THE KNOWING 27 

sible, what is its meaning, its extent, its origin, its 
destiny. Of these four lines of investigation, inter- 
twined though they necessarily are, the one possess- 
ing the highest intrinsic interest is that one which 
belongs to the future. Moreover, the only means of 
following it is through the past and what we com- 
monly regard as the present ; hence any conclusion 
arrived at as to the future of politics would likewise 
appertain to the significance of its actual conflicts. 
Let us begin, then, as spectators and avowed theo- 
rists, by enquiring what future development or devel- 
opments of politics are conceivable. 

We have seen that the principal cause of embarrass- 
ment to the active politician is the conflict between 
egoistical and altruistical impulses in both himself 
and others. This is not to say that other influences 
outside of politics, such as ill health or personal en- 
mities, may not be quite as obstructive of his efforts ; 
nor that any or all of the observed forms of egoism 
and altruism may not, on the whole, be eminently 
desirable. Whether they are desirable or not is 
primarily a matter of no importance in this enquiry, 
the object of which is to discover what development 
of them is possible in the future, if indeed any de- 
velopment is possible. Similarly no account will 
be taken in the present enquiry of the effect upon 
politics of ill health, personal enmities, climate, earth- 
quakes, or any other outside influences. Politics, 
it is true, have to do with all human activities 



28 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

and conditions of life : with commerce, agriculture, 
health, personal enmities, even earthquakes. But 
our immediate concern is with the motives that 
enable politics to deal with any matter in any man- 
ner whatsoever. And these would seem to be 
intelligibly summarised in the terms egoism and 
an opposing altruism. In proceeding to indicate 
the conceivable developments of politics we will, 
then, assume all conditions outside of politics to 
remain passive. This is to say, the terrestrial cli- 
mate shall continue about as it now is, whilst com- 
merce, agriculture, the public health, personal en- 
mities, etc., shall in no way change save in direct 
response to the action of politics. The conceivable 
effects upon politics of original developments in the 
several departments of human activity with which 
they deal, as well as in the processes of nature, will 
form the subjects of enquiries to follow. 

Under the assumed conditions the destiny of poli- 
tics will obviously be one of three. 

(1) At some period, either in the past or in the 
future, altruism in politics will have reached the 
point of its greatest influence, and from that time 
onward will have gradually yielded to egoism until 
at some point in the future it will become extinct, 
leaving politics perfect in their egoism. 

(2) At some period, either past or future, egoism 
will have reached the point of its greatest influence, 
and from that time onward will have gradually 



THE KNOWING 29 

yielded to altruism until at some point in the future 
it will become extinct, leaving politics perfect in 
their altruism. 

(3) At some period, either past or future, altruism 
will have reached the point of its greatest influence ; 
and at some other period, past or future, egoism 
will have reached the point of its greatest influence. 
Neither will ever have wholly exterminated the other, 
and politics will oscillate indefinitely between the 
two extremes. 

In the course of our investigation these three 
hypotheses will be referred to as respectively (1), 
(2), and (3). 

If the destiny of politics is correctly described in 
(1), it is clear that their control will eventually 
devolve upon a single individual who will prescribe 
for all other men in every detail of those multifarious 
activities with which politics have to do. An in- 
termediate stage would be that in which each man, 
politically, should work solely for his own interest 
so far as is compatible with his consistent absten- 
tion from helping another at the same time. The 
more efficient workers would gradually bring about 
the political death of the less efficient until the most 
efficient one was left alone in politics. Such a state 
of society, though perhaps failing to realise perfect 
egoism in all respects, would nevertheless realise 
it in respect of politics. It is, moreover, conceivable 
and, so far as it goes, negatives nothing that we 



30 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

know. After enquiring if there are any conceivable 
realisations of perfect egoism in other activities we 
will return to the instance of it in politics and try 
to discover what further development of it, if any, 
is possible. 

If the destiny of politics is correctly described in 
(2), it is clear that their control will eventually 
devolve upon the mass of mankind taken together, 
of which every individual will have exactly the same 
degree of influence and exactly the same political 
opinions as every other. Such a state of society, 
though perhaps failing to realise perfect altruism in 
all respects, would nevertheless realise it in respect 
of politics. Like (1), it is conceivable and, so far as 
it goes, negatives nothing we know. After consider- 
ing any other conceivable realisations of perfect altru- 
ism we will return to this one and try to discover 
what further development of it, if any, is possible. 

Under (3), we may with advantage select for ex- 
amination the two extremes of all supposable cases 
lying within its scope. 

(a) The supposed oscillation of politics will take 
place between extremes of egoism and altruism such 
as have already been seen in practice within his- 
torical times. 

(b) The supposed oscillation will take place 
through an arc of the greatest magnitude short of 
perfect egoism, on the one hand, and perfect altru- 
ism, on the other. 



THE KNOWING 31 

In the case of (a) comparatively few variations of 
the scheme of politics would be possible. If we 
should take the political achievements egoistic and 
altruistic of individuals, of nations, of the average 
of humanity, during the past few thousand years and 
impartially shake them together for a few million 
years more, taking an occasional look as they formed 
what combinations they would, — surges forward 
towards either goal, slips backward towards the 
other, sluggish progressions, partial retrogressions, 
— we should have at the end of our performance 
a kaleidoscope of familiar dulness. The antagonism 
between oligarchy and democracy, between legis- 
lative and executive; the preliminaries of war and 
its prosecution; the benevolence and malevolence 
of one-man power ; the inroads of socialism, — these 
and all other incidents of politics would be seen in a 
great number of different combinations sometimes 
sufficiently novel to deserve new names but never 
sufficiently novel to conceal from an intelligence 
equal to that of the average politician of to-day 
the fact that their basis was an egoism and altruism 
restricted within bounds incomprehensible to theory. 
This must in time become subject of vulgar comment 
handed on from father to son ; and, though it seems 
likely that from now on the records of human achieve- 
ment will not be exposed to destruction so often as 
at certain periods in the past, our politician of the 
distant future would not need to turn a single page 



32 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

of them in order to realise the limitations of his pro- 
fession. Then theory, the dweller in brighter worlds, 
the tolerant mentor of laggard practice, the author 
of all known movement in politics, must stand 
dumfounded by this curtailment of her influence 
at a definite point for which no reason is known or 
conceivable. It might suddenly occur to the be- 
wildered politician that politics were perhaps sub- 
ject to a power greater than the power in men and 
things and either less orderly in its operation or else 
so different from it that the two could have no point 
in common, — an unknown and wholly unknowable 
power which, having denied man's supposed right 
of partial judgment in any political matter how- 
soever trivial, ends with denying its own right to be 
even mentioned in connexion with politics and con- 
sequently with proving the absurdity of its own 
existence, — but this being sheer nonsense, he must 
see that there is nothing left for political theory but 
to give up the ghost. 

Before proceeding to enquire how political practice 
would get on without the aid of theory, let us consider 
the case of the oscillation of politics as described in 
(6). In this case the number of variations of the 
scheme of politics would be the greatest possible 
under (3), and most of them would baffle the intelli- 
gence of a politician of to-day if they could be de- 
scribed to him. The science and versatile genius of 
one who should gain all but complete control of 



THE KNOWING 33 

politics and prescribe for each man in every detail 
of his various activities is hardly a subject for profit- 
able comparison with the greatest achievements of 
historical times. For the benefit of such a one many 
important secrets must have been wrested from the 
trees, the stones, and the minds of men, whilst error 
must have been cleared away in prodigious quanti- 
ties to open up the short cuts by which he might so 
quickly reach decision and effective performance. 1 
On the other hand, the development of the mass of 
mankind to a point at which every individual has 
all but exactly the same degree of influence and all 
but exactly the same political opinions as every other 
is obviously compatible only with a similar advance- 
ment in knowledge and elimination of error. 2 

We of this day are mentally incompetent to follow 
any supposable future progression in politics, egoistic 
or altruistic, to any considerable distance beyond 
such achievements as have been witnessed by our- 
selves and our forefathers. One thing, however, may 
safely be said of such a progression. The varia- 
tions of the political scheme that might occur during 

1 Mental deterioration of his subjects and increased restriction 
of their activities could hardly be supposed to afford the op- 
portunity of all but absolute and universal sovereignty to a man 
only equal in mental capacity to the man of to-day; yet if it 
did, the political consequences would be equivalent to those 
presently to be described. 

2 Mental deterioration could not be supposed to promote altru- 
ism any more than egoism, nor increment of error to be separable 
from increased divergence of opinions. 



34 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the oscillation of politics through the greatest pos- 
sible arc would in time become entirely familiar to 
any intelligence that was capable of bringing them 
about and understanding them. And with the pro- 
gression of either egoism or altruism beyond the 
points that we now know, there must go, as we have 
seen, an intelligence keener to detect those apparent 
similarities and repetitions which would loom the 
bulkier in any thought transmitted by heredity as the 
period of that thought was prolonged. So that this 
process, (6), in so far as it concerns our present en- 
quiry, is precisely the same as (a) ; and the end of it 
all is that theory stands confronted with the fact that 
all her efforts have proved ultimately futile; that 
her palace of perfection is nothing but a fool's para- 
dise, unaccountably so, and at the very next door 
to achievement's abode; that her inseparable con- 
nexion with practice, the sole reason and evidence 
of her existence, turns out to have been illusory; 
that she must die absurdly in the conviction of 
having never lived. 

Between (a) and (b) lie all possible cases in (3); 
and in our examination of (3) as well as of (1) and 
(2) it is obviously of no importance whether we 
understand by politics the politics of a small village 
or of a great nation or of the average of nations 
throughout the earth or of any other planet where 
politics may be supposed to exist. Nor does it 
matter how great or how small a content anybody 



THE KNOWING 35 

may be disposed to assign to the term politics. 
We have assumed a practical politician and a body 
politic and an apparent conflict between, on the one 
hand, his impulse to serve himself and their impulse 
to serve themselves, and, on the other hand, his 
impulse to serve them and their impulse to serve 
him and one another. These things we had a right 
to assume because everybody has observed them 
in politics ; more than these things we need not nor 
could have assumed because nothing further has 
ever been observed nor is conceivable in politics. 

In the case of (3), political theory being dead, 
and ourselves face to face with the curious question 
how practice is to get on unaided, we are at once 
reminded of a certain well-known principle of human 
activity. 

This is the principle that consciousness cannot 
exist independently of change; that it consists in 
a new response to something new without — or, 
to reduce to lowest terms, in the mutual interaction 
of two things, which, either in themselves or in their 
actual form, have but now come into being and are 
passing even with their birth. What at any time 
affects our consciousness is invariably something 
which has never affected it before, because belong- 
ing to a unique portion of the universe or, say, to 
a definite point in time. The recollection of a past 
event is thus an entirely new act and could never 
be equalled in any respect by a subsequent recol- 



36 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

lection of the same event although it might appear 
to be so equalled. And two apples seen at the same 
time, or the same apple seen at different times, are 
never quite the same although they may appear 
the same. 

It is clear, then, that we are imperfectly aware of 
things : the apple changes before our eyes without 
our being immediately conscious of the change. 

It is, however, well known that this consciousness 
of ours shares with the objects that may affect it 
the primal need of change. A perfectly monotonous 
sensation is unknown and impossible ; and we must 
draw largely on our imagination for conceptions 
of any near approach to monotony. You could 
not see a chalk mark on the black-board if you 
did not see the black-board and had never seen one. 
Even if you had seen black-boards and plenty of 
other things besides, you could not look at the 
chalk mark on the board very long at a time, for they 
would both soon fade from view. When you con- 
centrate your ordinary winking gaze on an apple 
on the tree, change enters largely into your sensa- 
tion, for the apple itself is not a homogeneous ap- 
pearance whilst the background may be highly varied. 
Yet you will soon find yourself in desperate need of 
change; and unless you finally turn your head or 
close your eyes you will assuredly go blind. The 
same result would follow upon your looking alter- 
nately at the apple and at a distant mountain-top. 



THE KNOWING 37 

There are doubtless plenty of dogs and babies 
that could outgaze you. But suppose a child, 
endowed only with the sense of hearing, to be born 
at a time when a single continuous note is being 
played on an organ; and suppose this sound and 
no other to remain ever within hearing distance of 
the child. We can safely say that the child would 
gain no idea of sound, — would not hear, — al- 
though, if other notes were presently played at 
various intervals, it would indeed begin to hear. 
Similarly, if it were born into absolute stillness, and 
later a single continuous note were played, it would 
gain an idea of sound which, however, would gradu- 
ally die away along with the memory of the change 
from stillness to noise. 

Since consciousness — which may be roughly 
denned as the sum of sensations and memories of 
sensations — is dependent for its continued exist- 
ence upon change not only in the objects which 
may affect it, but also in the appearances or sensa- 
tions representing these objects, it becomes a 
theoretical necessity, as well as an observed fact, 
that any approach to monotony in the experience 
of a consciousness suited, by virtue of its ante- 
cedents or of its own earlier experience, to a more 
varied existence, tends to degrade or even to 
dissolve such a consciousness. Assuming, for the 
moment, that consciousness is possessed exclusively 
by man and the other animals, we note that the lower 



38 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

animals may lead a normal existence of much 
narrower scope than is possible to man. Though 
the mechanism of the human hand and the inven- 
tion of letters are far more complex than anything 
to be found in the lives of the lower animals, any 
man who should be condemned to do nothing but 
write his own name would soon lose his mind and 
his life as well. 

Conservatism itself is obviously one expression 
of this principle of change. Men who are unsuited 
by heredity or by individual experience to highly 
mercurial conditions of life are deprived of many 
of their congenial pursuits whenever such con- 
ditions are realised in fact. These men cling, not 
merely with affection, but with fear and desperation, 
to their old homes, their villages, and their familiar 
form of government, knowing that any sharp turn 
of individual fortune or general law would bring 
with it the most paralysing consequences to their 
chosen activities. And all men are like these, the 
difference being only one of degree. For, ignorant 
as we are of our exact capacity for change, we all 
recognise certain limits to the aspirations of our age. 

In the present enquiry into the destiny of politics 
we have, then, to bear in mind that increased uni- 
formity of individual experience leads to stagnation 
and dissolution of the individual consciousness; 
that the more varied has been the past experience 
of a species, or of a race, or of an individual, the 



THE KNOWING 39 

more imperative is its demand for continued and 
improved diversity of experience in the future; 
that contentment gained is ambition lost and degra- 
dation begun; that all conservatism makes for the 
stability of certain conditions of life as the best 
means of securing the differentiation of other con- 
ditions. 

In the light of this principle the ultimate conse- 
quences of an indefinite oscillation of politics through 
egoism and altruism show clearly enough. Theory 
being powerless to extend the influence of either 
egoism or altruism beyond a certain point, the in- 
creasing redundancy of political experience would 
become an axiom in the minds of all men. If 
politics comprised the sum of human activities and 
if their oscillation was not interrupted by some such 
calamity as the end of the world, it would un- 
doubtedly end in a calamity tantamount to this 
one, so far as their human inventors were concerned. 
All men, that is, would eventually find themselves 
leading a life immensely narrower, relatively to the 
increased experience of the race, than that of a man 
of to-day who was condemned to do nothing but 
write his own name. Dissolution would quickly 
follow. 

Without stopping at present to discuss the possi- 
bility of an end to the world, and before returning 
to our hypotheses (1) and (2), — according to which 
either altruism or egoism in politics should eventu- 



40 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

ally be exterminated by the other, — let us consider 
some other familiar forms of human activity. For, 
as we have already observed, politics, though deal- 
ing with practically every human concern, do not 
in themselves constitute all these various concerns. 
Thus a man may lead an active and varied life who 
gives no attention whatever to politics. And our 
hypothesis (3) of indefinite oscillation in politics 
may therefore contain no menace to the integrity 
of human consciousness, but may be entirely com- 
patible with an indefinitely continued development 
of this consciousness. In other words, it is quite 
conceivable that, after an immense variety of ex- 
periments, politics will become so adjusted that con- 
servatism is the unexceptive rule. Then no man 
could find a career in politics, but all men would, 
by reason of this exclusion, be freer to develop in 
other ways. It would thus be politics, not their 
human inventors, which had suffered dissolution. 
In all those forms of human activity lying out- 
side of politics we may expect to find, as in politics 
themselves, an all-informing egoism and altruism; 
for, in every act or thought of any man's there 
appear to be the factors Himself and Other Men 
or Other Things, just as in every material process 
there appear to be one thing, and one or more things 
not contained within the first thing. Every act 
and every thought of every man has a motive; 
and this motive is invariably the desire to secure 



THE KNOWING 41 

a real or apparent benefit for himself or for other 
living beings. We need not here pause to ask 
ourselves if there is a distinction between the per- 
ception of a benefit to be secured and the will to 
secure it. For the moment it suffices to observe 
that every act of man and every thought leading 
to action seems to be either egoistic or altruistic. 1 
Egoism would then be the same egoism and al- 
truism the same altruism in any activity, and the 
only difference between two activities would seem 
to lie in the material objects with which they have 
to do. Let us try to discover if this would neces- 
sarily be true, and to this end we may enquire into 
the destiny of egoism and altruism in another and 
equally conspicuous human concern — that of 
private property. As in the case of politics their 
destiny must be one of three : 

(1) Egoism will triumph over and exterminate 
altruism; i.e. one man will gain possession of all 
the property there is, and no other man will own 
the smallest share in any part of it. 

(2) Altruism will triumph over and exterminate 
egoism; i.e. the time will come when every man 
will own property exactly equal in amount and in 
nature to that owned by every other man. 

1 Those acts which we commonly speak of as partaking of 
both egoism and altruism need not receive a separate considera- 
tion, since they are all truly altruistic. True altruism aims at 
inducing altruism in others : it may not, then, manifest itself in 
acts by which the agent himself is allowed to go unbenefited. 



42 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

For anything we know to the contrary either of 
these destinies is possible. 

(3) At some time, past or future, will have been 
realised the greatest centralisation of wealth; and 
at some other time will have been realised the widest 
distribution of wealth; and through this arc will 
swing for ever the pendulum of "mine and thine." 

If this last hypothesis be justified by the issue, 
and if we suppose the sum of human activities to 
equal the sum of the processes of acquisition and 
partition of property, it is clear that the destiny 
of this activity, as in the case of politics, would 
involve the dissolution of consciousness in men or 
in any legitimate successors of men. Or if the sum 
of human activities be supposed to include the 
business of politics as well, and indefinite oscillation 
be the destiny of egoism and altruism in both fields, 
the result would be the same. If men or their 
successors should escape the doom of their mother 
Earth, and considerations of property and politics 
should be extended throughout the universe; and 
if politicians and property-holders should multiply 
in proportion to this extended scope of their activities, 
it would still be impossible ultimately to avert the 
exhaustion of the resources of these two careers, 
unless it be supposed that these resources together 
with those who handle them be multiplied to in- 
finity: a supposition which is obviously absurd 
in connexion with either property or politics, since 



THE KNOWING 43 

it would deny to any polity or piece of property 
any value whatsoever as a basis for action, discus- 
sion, or thought. Or, again, if we make the extreme, 
and highly improbable, supposition that from time 
to time all written and verbal records of the past 
be destroyed, the legacy of racial experience by 
heredity would eventually reduce the once novel 
impulses to action in either of these two fields to 
a paralysing monotony; and nothing but the ma- 
terial collapse of the universe could avert that 
similar calamity of a gradual dissolution of con- 
sciousness. 

But wealth and power do not constitute the sum 
of human concerns, and we occasionally observe 
a man leading a full and varied life though giving 
but little attention to either. Let us, then, proceed 
to examine the roles of egoism and altruism in those 
departments of human activity lying wholly or 
partially outside of politics and the distribution of 
material property. 1 

The pursuit of fame, when considered apart from 
the practice of an art for its own sake, presents an 
analogy so close to that of the pursuit of political 
power as to require no detailed review. 

Again, the addiction to vices of the senses, arising 
as it always seems to do from an impulse to acquire 
an apparent superiority over others or over one's 

1 Again postponing consideration of our hypotheses (1) and 

(2). 



44 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

normal self, presents a similar analogy and calls for 
no separate treatment here. A dream of love, 
wealth, or domination is doubtless the reason for 
them all ; or if anyone should prefer to regard them 
as merely the relics of a more bestial past, he would 
expect them to be left out of a discussion of activities 
peculiarly human. 

We may, then, proceed to consider a certain 
motive of men's actions which seems to show some 
distinguishing characteristics. This motive we may 
call love and define roughly as an emotional con- 
sideration which anybody may have for self, wife, 
child, friend, or all mankind. And love as a form 
of activity may be called the practical consequences 
of that emotional consideration, since no motive 
can exist without an act to follow, be it but the 
involuntary quiver of an eyelid or a thought un- 
uttered. 

With no desire especially to exclude them from 
consideration, we may nevertheless refrain from 
laying great stress on the so-called physical char- 
acteristics of love, since in sexual love and in love 
of progeny we differ so little from some of the lower 
animals that these activities possess but little in- 
terest in a discussion whose range is, for the moment, 
being purposely confined to the domain of activities 
peculiarly human. Obvious as is their importance 
as an evolutionary means to the end of life itself, 
they were more properly discussed in connexion 



THE KNOWING 45 

with the other processes of nature. We may here 
regard them simply as exerting a greater or lesser 
influence on that emotional consideration which 
results in acts of love in general. 

Love is regarded as in the main altruistic; yet 
it is hardly necessary to observe that its whole 
existence seems to be made up of a conflict between 
altruism and egoism; the immediate realisation of 
perfect altruism being prevented by no other human 
influence than that self-love which we have con- 
veniently divided into the categories of fear, hate, 
pride, self-indulgence, conceit, self-respect, etc. 
The perfect egoism of love would mean that every- 
body would love himself and nobody else, and 
would act accordingly in every way; for love, like 
politics, is intimately connected with all other 
human activities and in its manifestations the con- 
crete is always involved. That is to say, the most 
refined abstractions of love, as manifested in praise, 
blame, or sympathy, admiration of mental gifts, 
or encouragement given to another to work for a 
moral principle, are all grounded solely upon objects 
capable of affecting our organs and nerves of sense 
or upon inferences directly derived from sense-im- 
pressions. These reflections on the manifestations 
of love are not essential to our main theme, but 
may serve to mitigate its character of abstractness. 
Nor is it necessary to assign a quantitative value 
to any particular love, egoistic or altruistic. In 



46 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

any case it would depend upon a variety of circum- 
stances, — the physical and mental characteristics 
of the lover, his position in life with regard to other 
activities, the comparative usefulness or futility 
of performing acts of love or of yearning to perform 
them, etc., — and how great would be that self-love 
which should embody the perfection of egoism, it 
is neither possible nor, for present purposes, desirable 
to know. 

(1) The perfect egoism of love would mean, then, 
that everybody would love himself and nobody else, 
and would act accordingly in every way ; and 

(2) The perfect altruism of love would mean that 
everybody would love himself and everybody else 
equally, and would act accordingly in every way. 
While love existed, nobody might refrain from lov- 
ing himself as well as others, for he must always 
suffer acts of love to be done to him; moreover, 
his love for others would prevent his desiring them 
to witness his martyrdom or to love one whom he 
loved not. 

Either of the above destinies of the activity of love 
is conceivable and negatives nothing that we know. 

(3) It is readily to be seen that the hypothesis 
of the indefinite oscillation of love between the 
extremes of egoism and altruism just short of the 
perfection of either would mean the eventual an- 
nihilation of love; or, if all other human activities 
had perished, it would mean the eventual dissolution 



THE KNOWING 47 

of human consciousness. In love, as in other activ- 
ities, the vastly strengthened will or intelligence 
which must be a condition precedent to any near 
approach to the perfection of either egoism or 
altruism would be at least sufficient to deprive of 
interest any oscillation of love which might extend 
no farther in either of the only two possible di- 
rections. History and inexorable heredity must then 
do their work. The need to be inventive in love 
is already admitted by us all; but the most subtle 
refinements of affection and forethought would in 
time come to be regarded as no better than singing 
" Drink to me only with your eyes" or giving a 
brace of jewelled hearts. The effect of these or 
similar demonstrations upon any member of a 
generation having more varied traditions than our 
own and lacking the diversion of politics or of trade 
need not be dwelt on at length. Eventually no 
word could be said to one's beloved, no surprise pre- 
pared for him, which possessed for him the smallest 
interest. No pain could be spared him with which 
he was not already so familiar that to have suffered 
it would have been no pain at all but merely flat 
and futile death. 

Thus in love, as in politics, though real or apparent 
oscillations through egoism and altruism may have 
already taken place, and though further oscillations 
be inevitable in the future, the net result of every 



48 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

series of a sufficient number of oscillations must be 
an advance in the direction of either egoism or al- 
truism, — that is, if love is to be acquitted of suicidal 
intent. Love, then, and politics and the rest, 
would seem to differ in their motions from a material 
pendulum, and the figure is perhaps indeed far- 
fetched, although we may have reason to doubt 
if the real motions of a pendulum are correctly 
described by its "laws." 

A word, now, as to another human activity which 
so nearly coincides with love that the two might 
quite well have formed the subject of a single 
inquiry. It comprises all those acts, whether in 
politics, trade, the life of the family, or any other 
phase of life, which may be considered according 
to ethical standards. Roughly speaking, morality 
is the altruism of it; immorality, the egoism. 
Should anyone care to draw distinctions, he may do 
so without in any way affecting the results of the 
enquiry. Hypothesis (3) as to the destiny of this 
activity would obviously lead to the same issue as 
in the case of all the other activities considered. 
For, as soon as the futility of all moral or immoral 
acts was clearly demonstrated, everybody would 
become unmoral. The perfection of immorality 
is conceivable as a state of society in which every- 
body would always endeavour to act in his own 
interest and not in the interest of anybody else. 
And the perfection of morality would mean that 



THE KNOWING 49 

everybody would always try to act in the interest 
of himself and all others equally. 1 

Let us now consider that department of human 
activity which may be called provisionally the 
practice of an art for its own sake. Politics, war, 
trade, love, and the rest are all arts which may 
conceivably be, and perhaps sometimes are, practised 
largely for their own sakes ; and, on the other hand, 
it may be doubted if any of the mechanical or fine 
arts are ever practised exclusively for their own sakes. 
Our concern at present is with that phase of the 
practice of any art, be it politics, carpentry, or music, 
which is determined by the intrinsic interest pos- 
sessed by that art for the practitioner. 

For the purposes of this inquiry, the scope of the 
activity under consideration may be extended so 
as to include the pursuit of knowledge as well. We 
draw a convenient and practically necessary dis- 
tinction between science and art which, however, 
cannot be sustained in either their evolutionary or 

1 Certain phases of the religious life are treated of in the text 
in the reviews of politics, love, and the pursuit of knowledge. 
That phase of it which is generally regarded as being determined 
exclusively by dogma is purposely omitted from consideration 
in the belief that the readers of this essay will agree that the 
influence of dogma upon human activities is no more a funda- 
mental one than, say, the laws of nations. If, however, it were to 
be formally treated in the text, the results of such treatment are 
readily to be divined. In the eighth chapter will be found some 
ancient observations upon our fundamental love and fear of the 
supernatural which, I trust, will make clear the inutility of their 
receiving a separate treatment in this chapter. 



50 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

their teleological aspect. Knowledge is new ex- 
perience. The ancestors of a painter gained certain 
new experiences through their actions in going to 
live in a certain country, in letting their eyes rest 
on certain objects, in laying their hands to certain 
pieces of work; and the sum of these experiences 
together with the sum of his own constitute our 
painter's opportunity to paint, his ability and desire 
to paint, and his act of painting as well. His act 
of painting is itself new experience of precisely the 
same order as the entomologist's chance discovery 
of a new species. His aim in painting is again the 
same as the entomologist's or the pedagogue's or 
the philosopher's : to produce a new object of 
interest for his own or another's contemplation, 
or the copy of an old object which continues to 
provide new experience for himself or others. The 
combination of new experience to form still newer 
experience is seen in every stroke of the painter's 
brush, which is the resultant of, or the conclusion 
consciously or unconsciously drawn from, all the 
earlier strokes of his own brush and of other brushes 
whose products he has studied. In sum, though 
the work of each individual artist is different from 
that of every other artist and scientist, it is impos- 
sible to discover any but an apparent difference 
between the work of scientists as a class and that of 
artists as a class, their antecedents, their consumma- 
tion, their aim, being precisely similar, and the only 



THE KNOWING 51 

distinction between them having been arbitrarily 
established by ourselves to compensate for our 
necessarily massive ignorance of the factors in any 
particular performance. 

We may, then, define the activity under con- 
sideration as the acquirement of knowledge for 
its own sake: this to include the study of the arts 
and physical sciences, of history, philosophy, liter- 
ature, etc., the teaching of all these branches of 
learning, as well as the practice of all arts, in the 
widest sense of the word "art," for the intrinsic in- 
terest which they possess. That such an activity 
is indeed human will, I think, be questioned by none. 
For, should we assume that no single piece of know- 
ledge was ever of interest exclusively for its own sake, 
but that some consideration of wealth, fame, of a 
desired supremacy over another, or of the prolonga- 
tion of life itself, was always in the mind of him who 
sought it, the end of such acquisition of wealth, 
fame, supremacy, or additional days of life, must 
still be new experience, and our assumption must by 
implication be discredited. 

At the end of this stage of our investigation I think 
we may be satisfied that we have, in our review 
beginning with politics and ending with the pursuit 
of knowledge, ignored none of those activities which 
are peculiarly human. 

Since we have found that all other activities seemed 
to consist in a conflict between egoism and altruism, 



52 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

we might expect to find in the acquirement of know- 
ledge a similar conflict which, however, fails to dis- 
close itself at first glance. A more rigorous search, 
made in the belief that this conflict must lie some- 
where subtly hidden, is equally unproductive. 

May the musical virtuoso be more altruistic than 
egoistic when composing or performing for the love 
of music? 

May he, on the other hand, be more egoistic than 
altruistic? I am unaware if any musician or other 
artist has ever withheld from his fellows any dis- 
covery or innovation of his own for reasons relating 
exclusively to the art itself. At all events, this could 
only have been done in the conviction that the secret 
would not die with its discoverer; for if the dis- 
coverer believed he was definitively withholding his 
new experience, his act of withholding would not 
be serving his interest in the art : in so far as the art 
was concerned there would have been no new expe- 
rience whatever. An artist might, of course, with- 
hold certain innovations in favour of other innova- 
tions, because of limitations of time or opportunity; 
but such an act, clearly, would not be artistically 
egoistic. 

May he who abandons his study of higher mathe- 
matics in order to teach arithmetic be more altruistic 
than egoistic? Clearly not, if he does this for his 
interest in teaching arithmetic. 

Try as we will, we can find no instance of the pur- 



THE KNOWING 53 

suit of knowledge for its own sake which reveals 
a conflict between egoism and altruism or even the 
slightest reason for the use of either of these terms 
in connexion with this activity. 

This conclusion respecting the pursuit of know- 
ledge seems at least as indisputable as any of those 
other conclusions arrived at in the course of this 
investigation. But what, then, of our other activi- 
ties, politics, trade, and the rest? Can we doubt 
that they are really human activities or that there 
is a conflict in them, — a conflict which we defined 
as the mutual opposition of egoism and altruism 
and which we believed to be identical with the 
peculiarly human phase of each of them, the only 
difference between two activities lying in the ma- 
terial objects with which they had to do? Or is 
there, perhaps, no point of contact between politics, 
trade, and love, on the one hand, which consisted 
each in a conflict between egoism and altruism, and 
the pursuit of knowledge, on the other hand, with 
which neither egoism nor altruism had anything 
to do, unless such point of contact lie in those 
material circumstances which we have not yet had 
under consideration? 

But we have already seen that knowledge played 
a very important part in all those other activities. 
Not only was it the principle of the unceasing pur- 
suit of new experience that determined our sole 
conclusion of value respecting those activities, — 



54 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the conclusion that indefinite oscillation of them 
all through egoism and altruism would end in the 
dissolution of consciousness, — but no single state- 
ment of ours was in any part or all independent of 
this principle. Ambition, greed, jealousy, modesty, 
or the acts and thoughts resulting therefrom must 
be the present culmination of past new experience. 
In each ambitious act or modest thought the factors 
are the sum of the past experience of the actor or 
thinker and of a greater or lesser portion of the ex- 
perience of all his ancestors. And these two factors, 
determined though they doubtless are by the sum 
of universal events, constitute a new experience — 
that is, an act or thought — which is different from 
anybody else's new experience. 

Thus are we brought face to face with the fact 
that all our human activities, though they may 
seem to differ from one another in their ultimate 
or concrete subject-matter, are as thoroughly in- 
formed by the pursuit of knowledge as we had 
believed them to be by the conflict between egoism 
and altruism; and, since the only thing that hu- 
manity or mind can do immediately to matter is to 
know it, this last distinction between our activities 
disappears from view. Furthermore, we know that 
our conflict between egoism and altruism cannot be 
identical with the pursuit of knowledge, for we have 
seen clearly enough that egoism and altruism have 
nothing to do with it. And, as we cannot in any way 



THE KNOWING 55 

get rid of this pursuit of knowledge or having of new 
experience, we are forced to conclude that the con- 
flict between egoism and altruism does not exist in 
fact, but only in appearance ; that no act or thought 
of man is egoistic or altruistic or both. 

Whatever may be the value of this conclusion, 
so far as it goes, — whatever, indeed, may be the 
value, pragmatically considered, of that logic which 
has enabled us to reach it, — when we come to test 
it by the standard of applicability in particular 
instances we find, as was to be expected, that it 
receives the most complete and emphatic corrobo- 
ration. Let us review and extend our earlier con- 
siderations of those activities which seemed to 
consist in a conflict between egoism and altruism. 

"If the destiny of politics * is correctly described 
in (1), it is clear that their control will eventually 
devolve upon a single individual who will prescribe 
for all other men in every detail of those multifarious 
activities with which politics have to do." 

"If the destiny of politics is correctly described 
in (2), it is clear that their control will eventually 
devolve upon the mass of mankind taken together, 
of which every individual will have exactly the same 
degree of influence and exactly the same political 
opinions as every other." 

It will be seen that (2) is exactly equal to (1). 

1 Page 29. 



56 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

For in (2), as in (1), there might be a vast number of 
variously hungry and thirsty men, of variously 
loving and hating men, but there would be but one 
political man, and this one would deal with all these 
various hungers and thirsts, loves and hates, in but 
one way, the way of the perfect politician. And to 
describe this man or his politics as either egoistic 
or altruistic would obviously be meaningless. 

In the case of private property, 1 it will again be 
seen that the perfection of altruism would be tanta- 
mount to the perfection of egoism, since, in respect 
of property, there would be but one man who would 
own everything there was to be owned. 

Without stopping to inquire what would become of 
private property and of politics in the hands of the 
perfect proprietor and of the perfect politician — 
and passing over the pursuit of fame and the ad- 
diction to vices of the senses as presenting no dis- 
tinguishing features of interest — we shall find that 
in love 2 the same identification of perfect altruism 
with perfect egoism is inevitable. All men being 
exactly alike in respect of love, there would be but 
one lover and one beloved. And the same thing is 
as true of morality and immorality : 3 morality when 
absolutely pure becomes equivalent to pure im- 
morality. 

Having satisfied ourselves that the perfection of 
egoism and of altruism would be one and the same 

1 Page 41. 2 Page 46. 3 Page 48. 



THE KNOWING 57 

thing and that the state of human society embodying 
such perfection in all its activities might not there- 
fore be called either egoistic or altruistic, we may 
ask ourselves if intermediate stages of activities 
might, nevertheless, reveal a real conflict between 
egoism and altruism. May we of to-day be perform- 
ing really egoistic and altruistic acts? In sum, 
may either egoism or altruism be a means to the end 
of that perfection which embodies neither? The 
impossibility of an affirmative answer becomes clear 
when we remember that no end has ever been known 
but was itself a means : that no end is even conceiv- 
able which looks not to another end. So necessary a 
constituent of all thought is the conception of con- 
tinuity in new experience that perfection itself can 
have no meaning for us unless it may be regarded as 
the means to something else. And if perfection 
could have no meaning, ail-but perfection could not be 
a means to anything else, and so could have no 
meaning, nor ail-but ail-but perfection, and so on 
down to our imperfect selves who would then collapse 
in absurdity. I may labour a whole lifetime with a 
single end in view, only to find, when I have attained 
it, that it is a means. And if I had at any time tried 
to conceive it solely as an end without consequences, 
it is obvious that I could not have laboured for it. 
I may be at great pains to kill myself, with a view to 
getting out of this world, but not with a view to 
sleeping a dreamless sleep for ever, for that view I 



58 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

cannot take, although I can mentally repeat the 
words and compare them with other traditional 
statements about the ends of things which have 
formed the nucleus of beliefs but have never corre- 
sponded to actual conceptions, — that is, to any- 
thing that may be maintained in thought. In a 
subsequent investigation we may attempt to seize 
the true significance of a belief in the ends of things. 
For present purposes, our knowledge that matter, if 
it has ever really died, has in all observed instances 
died in giving birth either to new matter or to some- 
thing from which new matter may be formed; that 
the same continuity is always observed in form 
and is the very essence of thought : this knowledge 
would justify the inference that ail-but perfect egoism 
could not die in giving birth to the perfection of 
something that is neither egoism nor its opposite, 
and in connexion with which either term is both 
actually and potentially irrelevant, even if we had not 
previously reached firm logical ground for denying 
to both egoism and altruism any part in human 
affairs save as appearances or convenient symbols of 
actual processes. 

It is clear, then, that the sum of activities peculiarly 
human for any period or for all time must be identi- 
cal with that process, within corresponding limits, 
which we have called the pursuit or acquirement of 
knowledge, the only means of pursuing knowledge 
being the acquirement of other knowledge. The 



THE KNOWING 59 

life of the human race, in other words, consists in the 
continuous reduction of the unknown by the knowing; 
in the ceaseless succession of new experiences, each 
experience constituting the sum of all earlier ex- 
periences. Each individual knower in this race of 
knowers is different from every other; each of his 
experiences is different from every other experience 
of his own or of any other. Thus, both knowers 
and known defy all classification save that one which 
embraces them all: every thought or act is new 
experience, and it can be nothing else ; every thinker 
or actor gains new experience, and he can do nothing 
else. 

Far from continuous appears this process to us of 
to-day having so much of the unknown before us, 
while we flounder clumsily in our distinctions 
between egoism and altruism, science and art, 
justice and injustice. Rather does it appear spas- 
modic and often exceedingly painful. 

An occasional somebody, who does not believe 
that we are cousins of the fishes, but who is deeply 
impressed with the significance of some thousands of 
years of written records, denies that any such process 
exists, and tells us that we are doing exactly the 
same things we did over a hundred generations ago, 
and he is by no means thinking of new experience. 

If I perceive an opportunity to deceive a foreigner 
and so to secure for my countrymen what everybody 



60 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

calls a substantial practical advantage, am I certain 
to refrain from taking the necessary step because I 
recognise the impossibility of looking far enough into 
the immediate future to discover many of the practi- 
cal consequences of my act, or because I recognise the 
theoretical necessity that whatever now appears to 
give my countrymen a practical advantage over 
foreigners cannot give them or me or anybody else 
any really practical advantage ? 

If I am being burned at the stake for having up- 
held a principle in which I believed, I am not likely 
to reflect that the act of my persecutors is of the 
same nature as my present experience. Suppose the 
principle I upheld to be, like all other principles, 
imperfect, in spite of which I have in a moment of 
exaltation seen far into the nature of things, I 
might then feel no hatred of my persecutors, I might 
die with a smile on my lips ; yet I should probably 
be aware of the pain of burning. 

If I am stronger than my neighbour and equally 
hungry, I may refrain from taking his loaf because I 
feel that to do so would be wrong. I may argue 
that I have no means of knowing if he has any right 
to that loaf; that I am in equal ignorance as to the 
consequences of my decision to society in general; 
that I am, on the contrary, well aware that the 
classification of acts as right and wrong does not 
apply to any single act whether it concern a loaf, a 
wife, or a battle, since any act may have consequences 



THE KNOWING 61 

which are in nature the opposite of the intention; 
that this classification is not even based upon proba- 
bilities making it applicable to the majority of cases, 
since the preponderance of consequences wholly un- 
known to its authors over those they guessed at is so 
vast that probability is not to be thought of in 
connexion with it ; finally I may argue that it matters 
not the least whether I take the loaf or leave it, 
since in either case both I and my weaker neighbour 
shall gain new experience, and when we have gained 
enough of this, hunger will be but a name : and still 
I may leave him his loaf because of my innate and 
deep-seated feeling that to take it would be wrong. 

Thus have the authors of these and other cele- 
brated distinctions, ignorant though they were of 
probabilities, made society what it is to-day, and no 
other course was open to them ; just as to us, ignorant 
also of probabilities but with more of past experi- 
ence and less of future, no other course is open than 
gradually to replace these fading distinctions with 
conceptions better suited to our position in time. 1 

Enough has been said to indicate, so far as is 
possible with the means at our command, the nature 
of the relation of our practical life of to-day, in which 
we work largely if not entirely 2 with symbols, to that 

1 The will to conquer, die, live, or let live in the face of reasons 
for the contrary proceedings will be considered in two different 
aspects in Chapters IV and VII. 

2 It will be remembered that we have as yet barely touched 
upon the purely material side of life. 



62 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

inner or basic process for which we are always trying 
to find improved symbols and which in its entirety 
in all time would constitute the sum or universe of 
human affairs ; and we are now naturally led back to 
the query with which we began, What is the destiny of 
all our human activities or of that one process of gain- 
ing new experience which is seen to inform them all ? 
It is now clear that this destiny must be one of two : 

(1) or (2) — to follow the scheme of our earlier 
enquiries — The human race will culminate in a race 
of beings, or rather in one being, since the individuals 
would be identical with one another in every respect, 
who knows all that exists and has ever existed. 

(3) The achievements of the human race will have 
approached at some period past or future to within a 
certain distance of omniscience — which distance 
may be any between the least we have as yet known 
and the span of a single new experience — beyond 
which no advance will ever be made. 

To consider first the first-mentioned hypothesis: 
it is impossible to gain a very satisfactory idea of a 
being who had already attained to this perfection of 
knowledge or was approaching it in confidence; 
nevertheless, a few things may be said of him in 
general terms. Feeling no physical or mental want 
he may nevertheless know all the pains and pleasures, 
all the selfish and unselfish acts of all his predecessors, 
— of all those who go to make him up, — and he may 
know these events in perfect composure because he 



THE KNOWING 63 

understands them. He may pry without shame 
into all the shameful details of all our lives — that is, 
his life — because, again, he understands them. The 
sum of these and other similar performances consti- 
tutes an occupation whose real incentive is the 
derivative of that curiosity which, as we have seen, 
determines our actual quest of food, pleasures, 
honours. Our successor who is approaching perfec- 
tion may live in a world that is ruined and in ashes, 
for he has the interest of all earlier worlds at his 
beck and call, even as we of to-day are fond of recon- 
structing, as far as possible, periods of earth-history 
in which we neither would nor could have lived. 
Whether he would be identical with his world is a 
question that will presently be raised : he would at all 
events know it thoroughly. 

Perfection attained, what would he then do ? For 
we cannot admit his perfection unless it be a means 
to something else. 

Might he persist indefinitely in his perfection, 
passing from one to another of his retrospective sur- 
veys ? If he be regarded as having absorbed, and so 
as containing within himself, all time, such persistence 
in perfection for more time is an obvious absurdity. 
If, on the other hand, his knowing be regarded as 
conditioned by time in the same way as our actions 
of to-day are regarded, — for, so far as we have as 
yet considered him, perfect knower though he is, 
he may nevertheless be limited, as by material 



64 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

conditions, — it would still be inadmissible that he 
should give one moment of time to one review and the 
next to another, for at no time would he then embody 
perfection. Our conception of his perfection — 
crude though it is, yet possessing parental authority 
— demands that in that last moment of time which he 
absorbs, or in which he knows, he shall complete all 
his reviews. 

If, then, he may not persist in perfection, might he 
conceivably retrace his steps? If so, he could not 
be our legitimate descendant nor have any connexion 
with an observed human or material universe in 
which no processes are reversible. Premises cannot 
follow upon conclusions, nor the child be born before 
its mother. Our perfect knower has absorbed every- 
thing humanly possible, including mental and verbal 
images of impossibilities. He may revive a mental 
picture more or less vivid of a dragon or a three-footed 
hen, but he may not maintain this picture if he carry 
it forward into a generation of minds to which the 
impossibility of such creatures is as patent as that of 
the blackness of white. His verbal image of the final 
and futile death of things or of the distinction between 
science and art would suffer the same fate. Thus 
he may, even as we do, trace conclusions to the 
premises, or the child to its mother, but he cannot 
contemplate conclusions developing into premises 
nor resolve himself into a race whose old men grow 
through middle age into childhood. 



THE KNOWING 65 

Might he destroy himself ? But how could the sum 
of all experience become no experience, leading ever 
to no experience ? It could not, then, have been all 
or even any experience. This alternative, beyond 
its verbal aspect, forms no subject of human thought ; 
so let us by all means talk of three-footed hens if 
we like, but not of no experience. 

What course, then, is open to our perfect knower ? 
Clearly there is but one, and, though named last, this 
one was to be divined first. All experience is no 
sooner gained than it becomes what we may best 
call provisionally the least possible experience, this 
least possible experience being that of the inevitable 
change from all experience. The perfect knower 
having absorbed, at least in knowledge, all that is 
or has been, these all-things possible will persist, 
bearing mutual relations as different from perfection 
as possible when retrospectively considered, but as 
similar to perfection as possible when prospectively 
considered. The perfect knower existed solely by 
virtue of — i.e. his sole attribute was — perfect 
experience. He was therefore identical with the 
interrelation of this experience or its parts, and now 
becomes the least possible knower; and in this re- 
arrangement of all that is, the least possible " ex- 
perience is gained indifferently by all that may 
become a knower in every possible degree or by all 
that may become mutually known in all possible 
relations. 



66 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

This identification of the knower with his experi- 
ence, though logically derivable from the foregoing 
considerations, is a necessity which may become 
somewhat more intelligible after we have taken more 
detailed account of the material processes involved. 
Meanwhile let us inquire if there are any emotional 
factors in the situation in which the perfect knower 
finds himself. Pleasure and pain, physical or moral, 
having been eliminated except as symbols through the 
understanding of the basic process, it seems inevitable 
that the perfect knower should contemplate his 
imminent metamorphosis in a spirit of perfect com- 
posure. The work of the universe is finished. 
What remains? That the work of the universe 
should begin. The perfect knower must be changed 
into something that lacks even the sense of an 
amoeba, but what else could he desire? That the 
universe should begin midway? But then all expe- 
rience could not be gained; no, nor any. That his 
forefathers should be spared some of their suffering 
and tribulation? But nobody has ever known so 
well as he that they could then have nothing to call 
by the name of joy. He knows, furthermore, that 
by so much as any man has suffered above his fellows 
in life, will he be recompensed in the quality of his 
experience in the existence following his apparent 
death ; that by so much of pain as another has escaped 
through the strength of his mind, his inherited 
health, the ability of his ancestors, or through any 



THE KNOWING 67 

combination of circumstances to which we give the 
name of chance, by so much does his progress belong 
to the past and by so much has the future less in 
store for him. We will not pause here to discuss 
qualitative differences in experience during life and 
after death. Since this subject may be more ad- 
vantageously approached at a later stage of our in- 
vestigation, we should be content in this connexion 
with observing that the transition of the perfect 
knower into the least possible knower would be 
nothing less, in current phrase, than a measure of 
self-preservation, and that this transition would be 
accomplished with a smoothness and absence of 
fuss in comparison with which the thorn in an actual 
finger works a veritable havoc. 

To proceed now to the second and only other 
possible hypothesis as to human destiny — the 
hypothesis which corresponds to those earlier hy- 
potheses, (3), of the oscillation of human activities 
through egoism and altruism : 

"The achievements (page 62) of the human race 
will have approached at some period, past or future, 
to within a certain distance of omniscience, — which 
distance may be any between the least we have as 
yet known and the span of a single new experience, — 
beyond which no advance will ever be made." 

This hypothesis is obviously to be divided into 
two alternatives, of either of which we may form 
at least a verbal image. 



68 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

(a) At some future time it will become evident that 
an insuperable barrier to furtl^er progress is formed 
by the intrinsic relation between knowing man and 
that mass of world-happenings which might conceiv- 
ably form the subject of knowledge. No physical 
catastrophe will interfere with the indefinite progress 
of knowledge, but the nature of the knowable will 
be found to be such that it may not all be known. 
For example, a certain descendant of mine of a bill- 
ion years hence, who has somehow managed to escape 
the doom of Earth, will nevertheless remain in ig- 
norance of the daily life upon Earth of a certain 
ancestor of mine of a thousand years ago, because 
he has no means at his command of bringing this 
ancestor's doings to light ; and at the same time he 
will have the most convincing reasons for belief that 
his own descendants of a billion years later will be 
equally ignorant on the same subject. 

(b) Some physical catastrophe such as the gradual 
devolution 1 of the material universe with the conse- 
quent unavailability of any energy, will blot out the 
human race and everything else that may be the 
seat of consciousness before there is time to attain 
either perfect knowledge or the certainty that it is 
unattainable. 

The obvious implication of (a), if it be agreed that 

1 Throughout these enquiries this term will be used in a general 
sense, as above, in preference to the more usual term "dis- 
solution," which, as will later appear, would be out of keeping 
with the character of the investigation. 



THE KNOWING 69 

material phenomena may not indefinitely increase 
in variety, is the eventual dissolution of conscious- 
ness. 

When we come to test the conceivability of this 
same hypothesis, (a), — i.e. its capability of being 
maintained in thought, — we find that certain con- 
siderations of the material world are at once in- 
volved. At the outset, then, let it be understood 
that we have not here to discuss the doctrine that 
the reality which manifests itself in mind is different 
from the reality which manifests itself in matter — 
that a thing cannot be aware of itself ; hence it must 
be not-matter to which matter is presented. This 
contention is neither supported nor refuted directly 
by empirical evidence, although we shall see that 
certain empirical evidence has led to a conclusion 
which undermines the logical conceit on which alone 
it rests and on which recent generations have been 
unable to establish a conception possessing any prac- 
tical or theoretical value. In any case, however, 
it would seem impossible to deny that thought is 
no more perishable than the impulses emanating 
from matter ; that, as in the world of matter, 

" Thou canst not touch a flower 
Without troubling of a star," 

so in the world of thought, the lightest whim, even 
though unexpressed, conditions both the thought 
and the material processes of its own time and of all 



70 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

time to come. Inasmuch as the material processes, 
or the processes of which they form one manifesta- 
tion, are the ulterior determinants of all thought 
whilst thoughts are the determinants of some material 
processes, and inasmuch as Nothing cannot be sup- 
posed to lie between mind and matter nor between 
any two portions of mind, or of matter, or of the 
ether, it must be concluded that the material pro- 
cesses never give an impulse to thought without 
receiving from it an impulse in return which extends 
throughout their universe and at once reacts through- 
out this universe and through thought itself. The 
effects of these impulses upon individual objects and 
individual minds vary in accordance with that past 
experience of each which has determined its chemical 
composition or its position with regard to other 
material objects, or its temperament in comparison 
with other minds or many another feature of its 
existence. Some of the resultants of these effects, 
such as motion, energy, gravity, or the content of an 
idea, we can measure without knowing in the least 
what they are. Of other resultant effects we are 
unconscious ; but, apart from the theoretical neces- 
sity of the case, we have no hesitation in inferring 
their presence when we ask ourselves the following 
questions. 

We are undoubtedly unconscious of some of the 
factors in all our sense-impressions and in all our 
inferences from them. What are these factors ? 



THE KNOWING 71 

From the material processes and from the thought 
of others are undoubtedly derived certain effects 
which constitute those factors in our own sense- 
impressions and inferences of which we are indeed 
conscious ; and at the same time certain other effects 
are derived which do not figure in our conscious 
thought. Is it likely that these last-named effects 
never reach us, but pass one knows not whither, 
whilst the factors in thought of which we are uncon- 
scious have arrived one knows not whence ? 

Now, it is a further theoretical necessity that each 
of these effects, whether of thought-process or of 
matter-process, instead of retaining the same value 
through all time, should gain in efficiency with each 
added moment of time, since any event at any mo- 
ment of time would be determined by all the events 
of the preceding moment, each of which in turn 
would have been determined, amongst other things, 
by any particular earlier effect that we might name. 
The coefficient of the increase in efficiency of any 
given effect (or, more strictly, of the sum of effects 
directly derived from any given effect) per moment 
of time would, then, be the number of universal 
events per moment of time. Every simple or 
original effect would continue throughout all time 
to have the same efficiency at any given moment 
as any other effect. Any effects of which we may 
take account — i.e. any events — are, of course, 
exceedingly complex, — i.e. made up of many 



72 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

effects, — and would vary in relative practical im- 
portance, but each one of them would, in the sum 
of its consequences, gain continuously in intrinsic 
influence while retaining its original degree of in- 
fluence relatively to other effects. The necessity 
of this continuous gain in absolute efficiency without 
loss in relative efficiency will be seen not only in the 
foregoing considerations, but in the fact of evolution 
itself which could never have taken place in any form 
if all series of events were not continuously adding to 
their modifying influence upon one another. 

Instances of the operation of this principle of accu- 
mulation are to be met with everywhere in nature as 
well as in the life of ideas ; and nowhere is an instance 
to be found of an opposite or different process. A 
seed falling upon fallow ground, no matter whence, 
is an event — or culmination of many effects — 
possessing universal implications ; i.e. it is one of the 
determinants of all subsequent events, and all the 
consequences of this event react upon one another. 
Now, this falling of a seed may well be the condition 
precedent to the peopling of an island within a cer- 
tain time. The island populated bears a vastly 
different relation to the neighbouring continent, to 
the Earth as a whole, and to everything outside the 
Earth, from the island uninhabited. The immedi- 
ate effects of the falling of the seed, though just as 
far-reaching, were by no means so varied or intense 
— in other words, so efficient for the immediate 



THE KNOWING 73 

further modification of events — as this one amongst 
many resultant effects. Instances of this continued 
gain in efficiency, both in the material processes and 
in the life of ideas, are so common and obvious — at 
all events, where the process called devolution is 
not going on, and this process was, by the terms of 
the subdivision (a) of our hypothesis, left out of 
account — that no others need here be cited. 

One phase of the process of accumulation is sum- 
marised in general terms in the formula of a certain 
phase of evolution. The disappearance of a species 
testifies to the increased diversity of general terres- 
trial or of cosmical processes for participation in 
which the species in question is debarred by reason 
of some incident or incidents of its past experience. 
Similarly, a family or separate race of men, though 
gaining ever new experience, may disappear as such 
because of some peculiarity of their intermediate 
ancestors, such as physical inferiority or social rebel- 
liousness, which led them to go into another country 
or otherwise to provide for their descendants an 
environment in which they would, to some extent, 
be isolated from certain influences making for the 
survival, for the time being, of the common run of 
other branches of the human family. Though these 
descendants completely disappear as a race or family, 
it is always their cousins who persist, generally with 
increased advantages, even as every extinct species 
of plant and animal has its persistent avuncular rep- 



74 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

resentative upon Earth, carrying somewhere within 
it the record of the exterminating influence. In 
another investigation, a more than merely verbal 
analogy may occur to us between organic evolution 
and inorganic devolution. 

A single concrete instance will suffice to indicate 
the bearing of this principle of accumulation on the 
hypothesis (a) that perfect knowledge may never 
be attained because the nature of the knowable will 
be found to be such that it may not all be known. 
Suppose a certain ancestor of mine on this day just 
a thousand years ago to have conceived the idea that 
he had better confess to a priest. His wife, observing 
the flutter of one of his eyelids, guesses what has 
passed through his mind, and makes her plans ac- 
cordingly. This idea of my ancestor's is of course 
the resultant of all earlier effects, but may here be 
treated as if it were a simple effect. By it the men 
and women of the time will have been affected in 
various wise according to the present culmination 
of the past experience of each of them. To most of 
them its effect will swell that already prodigious pre- 
ponderance of processes going on within them and 
without which they are unable consciously to sep- 
arate into their component parts — of which they 
are, as we say, unaware, although each determinant 
of these processes colours each of their sense-impres- 
sions of the moment. They could do some separat- 
ing, those men of a thousand years ago. They 



THE KNOWING 75 

separated hunger from thirst, love from hate; but 
an effect that did not jog some such instinct or a 
memory or give rise to an actual sense-impression 
produced in them no result measurable by themselves 
or by their fellows; in other words, only those 
effects, or rather combinations of effects, which 
were on a very large scale and had originated in suit- 
able places, could form subjects of their conscious 
thought. The falling of a stone or the warmth of 
the sun's rays or the power of the church in their 
immediate neighbourhood they could take account 
of, but the vibration of an atom on the other side 
of the Earth was apparently lost upon them. Never- 
theless, if x represent the sum of effects immediately 
produced by my ancestor's thought, something like 
(af) will be the sum in the next moment of time, 
and something like (x x ) x x will be the sum in the third 
moment, each of these effects retaining the same 
value absolutely, and the sum of them retaining the 
same value relatively to other effects, that the origi- 
nal effect had in the beginning. 

As for myself, a thousand years later, I can tell 
you no more about my ancestor and his penitence 
than any contemporary of his living on the other 
side of the Earth could have told. If his penitence 
became famous, a neighbour of mine may even now 
be reading of it in a book without, however, being 
able the better to unravel the effect of it upon his 
own life. Indeed, the point scored over me in know- 



76 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

ledge by my neighbour is hardly worth mentioning ; 
since, if the penitence in question ever comes to be 
well understood, it will undoubtedly be found to have 
differed so widely from the written account of it that 
the book will not be thought of as an authority. 

I am by no means disposed to infer from our 
thousand years of added experience that I and my 
neighbour of to-day are necessarily more successful 
unravellers of the processes culminating in ourselves 
and our age than were many contemporaries of my 
penitent ancestor. It is an evolutionary necessity, 
which is far from being denied in the written history 
of our race, that a group of knowers or thinkers 
should now and then arise who, from force of cir- 
cumstances, might not hand down to their imme- 
diate successors their mental endowments unim- 
paired and unhampered, and who must so remain 
unexcelled for long generations. 

Let us compare the practical aspect of this propo- 
sition with its theoretical aspect. 

Practically, the conditions which make possible 
the thought of a group of great thinkers cannot be 
prolonged for more than a very few generations of 
men — are often not prolonged beyond the span of 
a single generation. Not only must an intellectual 
reaction supervene when it becomes clear that emu- 
lation of the great thinkers can result in but little, 
if any, advance, but the development of material 
needs always creates a diversion sooner or later. 



THE KNOWING 77 

Thus the son of a poet may be forced or tempted into 
the pursuit of trade or of war, for either of which 
he may by heredity be unfit. Again, the effect of 
a great thinker's single-handed contest with the un- 
known may be disastrous to the nerves and bodily 
health of his offspring. 

It will be observed that we are here speaking of 
" great thinkers'' in the traditional, which is also the 
evolutionary but not necessarily the teleological, 
signification of the term; i.e. we are judging them 
by the palpable effects of their activity upon the 
evolutionary process. For it is our way to overlook 
the foolish words and deeds of a man who has 
performed some useful work; but when in his son 
we find one who not only says and does foolish things 
but fails to say or do anything useful, we cannot 
waste time asking ourselves if this one is perhaps 
really a higher embodiment of humanity than his 
father. We are in complete ignorance of much the 
greatest part of what either he or his father embodies, 
but we know at least that the son may indeed be a 
blockhead and incapable of any greater contribution 
to progress than a cow's. So we generally turn him 
our backs, and properly enough, for this attitude is 
justified by the ethical consideration that it is unsafe 
to make as much of a blockhead as of a sage. 

But, theoretically, we know that everything that 
was present in the father must be present in the 
son and with accumulated force — and not only 



78 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

everything that was present in his own father but 
everything, as well, that was present in everybody 
else's father. And from this ultra-evolutionary 
necessity we conclude that heredity belongs exclu- 
sively to the evolutionary process and is not ap- 
plicable for all time. The son inherits from the 
father certain characteristics, as grey eyes or a ten- 
dency to say foolish things, which are apprehensible 
during that period of universe-history, or a part of 
it, to which the principle of evolution may apply. 
By far the greater part of his universal heritage is 
not to be consciously perceived by us human beings 
living in the evolutionary period because the time 
is not yet ripe; because we have not yet acquired 
ultra-evolutionary experience in sufficient fulness 
or variety. The portion of ultra-evolutionary ex- 
perience which we have already acquired in con- 
siderable fulness and variety is that portion of it 
which has resulted in the subject of all evolutionary 
considerations: to wit, matter. And upon matter 
depends heredity; for the existence of matter was 
a condition precedent to the existence of distances 
between places. Thus the son inherits from the 
father locally or materially, because the distribution 
of matter in places — or of matter and places — has 
made it possible that a son should issue from a father 
bearing some of his local characteristics. 

All our acts furnish an analogy to the case of he- 
redity. If I fire a pistol, the ensuing material distur- 



THE KNOWING 79 

bance is less on the other side of the Earth than it is 
in my immediate neighbourhood, whilst the total 
effect is the same there as here. With regard to 
the whole life of any son, before and after death, 
the importance of his locally inherited character- 
istics must be trivial indeed as compared with those 
transmundane vibrations of my pistol shot. 

Until within a very few years men have been 
concerned almost exclusively with matter — with 
matter, be it understood, in the widest sense of the 
term ; i.e. with matter itself, its motions, the imma- 
terial impulses set up by these motions, the sense 
impressions arising from these impulses in suitably 
organised living things, the inevitable inferences 
derived from the remembrance and comparison of 
these impressions. But the recent discovery that the 
atoms of matter are the resultants of processes some 
of which, at least, are immaterial has given an ex- 
perimental interest to considerations which had 
hitherto lain wholly within the realm of theory. 
Experiments are slow and painful; sometimes the 
conclusions drawn from them constitute the most 
retrograde and worthless of all theory; but they 
are nevertheless the obvious and necessary adjuncts 
of all theory: no theory being possible that is not 
founded on experiments; no experiments being 
possible without at least some tiny shred of theory. 
Now, at all events, theory and experiment are 
embarked together on a voyage into the immaterial 



80 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

in the course of which, though they may lose their 
first sailing master, evolution will eventually be 
left astern and remembered only as a local current 
in the ocean of appearances. 

To return, now, to the problem of my penitent 
ancestor: it would be difficult to say what was the 
evolutionary value of my position for understanding 
him, as compared with those of his contemporaries. 
Perhaps my absorption of a larger number of the 
material effects of his penitence, though adequate 
to produce considerable evolutionary modifications 
in our stock, would not, so far as potential know- 
ledge is concerned, make up for the considerable local 
difference between our respective surroundings, 
since in evolutionary problems differences in time 
often seem equivalent to distances in space. I 
should then be no nearer to understanding him than 
were his contemporaries. And it is certain that the 
indefinitely prolonged accumulation of strictly evo- 
lutionary effects could never bring me nor anybody 
else to a perfect understanding of him, it being in- 
conceivable that matter should eventually absorb 
all that which is now not-matter. 

But the ultra-evolutionary advantage of my posi- 
tion is obvious enough. My descendant of a billion 
years hence will be in a still better position. And 
if sufficient time was granted, — and there was no 
restriction as to time by its terms, — the worthless- 
ness of the hypothesis (a) under consideration would 



THE KNOWING 81 

be practically demonstrated; the knowable would 
be seen to contain no element of unknowableness; 
and to some far-off descendant, or rather successor, 
of mine would be brought home, in all possible 
relations, the penitence of my ancestor of a thousand 
years ago whose own understanding of his thought 
would, by comparison, be meagre. 

What we now call knowledge or thought, investing 
it with a certain competence to deal with ultra- 
evolutionary possibilities, is of course evolutionary 
in character, 1 and will eventually be unseated as 
its material constituents dwindle and vanish. It is, 
however, one resultant of processes which ultimately 
are exclusively ultra-evolutionary. Its successor 
will be another such resultant, subject to different 
conditions and more complex and competent in 
proportion to the difference in time. To use another 
figure, knowledge will be understood in these pages 
as the whole knowing family, of which our terrestrial 
and any other evolutionary knowledge represent a 
single generation. 

The hypothesis (a), then, is out of the question, 
and the destiny of human activities, or of the general 
process of gaining new experience, must be one of 
two. 

(1) or (2) — Perfect knowledge will be attained. 

(3), (b), (page 68) — Some physical catastrophe 

1 Cf. Chapter VI. 



82 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

will blot out the human race and everything else 
that may be the seat of consciousness before there 
is time to attain this perfect knowledge. 

The first-named is conceivable, and some of its 
implications have already been reviewed. 

Upon the last-named, as upon its alternative (a), 
the bearing of certain considerations already enter- 
tained is sufficiently clear, these considerations being 

The impossibility of no experience. 

The impossibility, in a universe to only one phase 
of whose processes the principle of evolution can 
a PPty> — an d then only in the character of a con- 
venient symbol invented by beings themselves evo- 
lutionary, — that universal devolution should ever 
take place. 

As I have stated in the preface, the investigation 
recorded in this chapter is not to be carried into the 
material world in its loneliness — i.e. as it may 
appear to exist or have existed apart from knowing 
man. This is reserved for the next chapter. 

The results of the investigation just completed 
should, I think, be sufficiently clear. The knowing 
and their knowledge are Change; the subject-matter 
of knowledge — which is ultimately the same thing 
as knowledge itself — is illusion. One illusion re- 
places another in that order which will be recognised 
by omniscience, or the sum of illusions, to have been 
determined by reality or the impossible. 



THE KNOWING 83 

The necessity of the finitude of knowledge and its 
subject-matter has already been stated a number 
of times. How it may be finite has also been stated 
in general terms. In the next chapter will be under- 
taken a more particular account of the manner of 
this finitude. 



CHAPTER III 

THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 

No apology seems necessary for the symbols or 
the treatment of them set forth in this chapter. 
The philosopher may accept, nay demand, a unit 
of space and a unit of time, furthermore a unit of 
substance in motion ; but when he attempts to treat 
of these unknown existences with a view to deriving 
from them the apparent universe, he soon finds that 
the sciences of physics and mathematics are inade- 
quate to the task. Yet, though he be prepared to 
admit that these sciences have perhaps no ultimate 
value but are useful only in describing matter as 
it affects the five senses of man, he is nevertheless 
forced to work, if at all, with symbols which are to 
some extent susceptible of physical and mathematical 
treatment, since everything contained in his percep- 
tual experience is susceptible of such treatment, 
and anything not so contained could not be defined 
in the terms of language. Only in such wise, by 
indirection, may he hope to come to any compre- 
hension of that which he cannot directly refer to 
anything contained in his experience. 

These considerations will so often reappear in the 

84 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 85 

course of this chapter that further definition of them 
may for the moment be dispensed with. 

Nor have I thought I need discuss at length a 
question which has been so often discussed before and 
always with the same result: to wit, the influence 
upon our daily lives of the intrusion of such funda- 
mental questions as, What is the universe? The 
well-known protest, "When so many needs are 
pressing, why should I bother my head with consider- 
ations so remote ?" meets with the inevitable reply, 
"But you can't help bothering your head with them." 
That "man is a born metaphysician" and that the 
most obvious of all questions is, "Whence this great 
world?" has been recognised by the cultivated and 
by the savage of all times of which we have know- 
ledge. Men put the question from them or eagerly 
attack it with varying persistence and satisfaction. 
If the standard of achievement be the highest prac- 
tical efficiency of an individual life that terminates 
with death, its repeated intrusion is often not a 
help but a hindrance; if the standard of achieve- 
ment be the progress of a race, the relatively suc- 
cessful evasion of it is without positive significance 
and, as a practice, is doubtless foredoomed to 
desuetude. 

Trusting, then, that the reader has already been 
convinced by my notable predecessors of my right, 
or any other's, to attack the problem of the universe 
and to begin either with particular appearances or 



86 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

with general principles-, I shall endeavour to point 
out what I believe to be at present the most promis- 
ing line of attack as well as the most obvious con- 
ditions of any attack conducted along this line. 

Certain assumptions in respect of the universe are 
frequently made — and by universe will be under- 
stood the sum of all things known and unknown — 
which are capable of disproof by any who will put 
to themselves any one of a number of different series 
of obvious questions. But to most of us nothing is 
more abhorrent than an obvious question. For the 
more obvious it is, the more swiftly does it come into 
a conflict of implications with an obvious fact. The 
tumult that ensues is indescribable, and generally 
a moral is drawn from it. 

In the enquiry here to be undertaken the implica- 
tions of these ill-starred postulates will not be re- 
viewed in detail : such a review would contain nothing 
essential beyond the considerations presented in the 
earlier chapters. The postulates themselves will 
be mentioned together with some of the obvious 
reasons for rejecting them; and the only remaining 
postulate that has ever been heard of will then be 
set up as a subject of discussion. This remaining 
postulate is a wayward kind of creature somewhat 
difficult to confine within the terms of language. 
Nevertheless, its implications may be maintained in 
thought and in verbal discussion; and the purpose 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 87 

of this enquiry is to discover, if possible, how they 
may work out practically. 

Infinity of space and time is an assumption which 
not only leads to nothing satisfactory but involves 
us in contradictions at the very outset. Since space 
and time are apparent conditions of all known 
actions, it seems impossible to assert that they must 
remain in the sum for ever unknowable without in 
the same breath renouncing the right to make any 
assertion or guess about them, positive or negative. 

But is an assumption of finitude, such as we 
associate with the objects of common experience, 
more feasible ? If we assert that the universe is one 
day to be destroyed even as a soap bubble at a 
touch of the hand, how can we attribute any sig- 
nificance to time as a whole or to that day of destruc- 
tion in particular ? In respect of space, a finite uni- 
verse is generally conceived as having a geometrical 
form. The surrounding Nothing must, then, have 
a boundary or outline. But an attribute so definite 
as outline seems impossible to predicate of Nothing, 
for how shall we believe that anything may have an 
apparent outline if Nothing may have a real one ? 

The only issue from this dilemma seems to lie 
in the assumption of a universe in which, on the one 
hand, new space and new time are not indefinitely 
realisable, whilst, on the other hand, it may never 
have had beginning nor end nor geometrical form. 



88 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Now, I trust I shall not be thought improperly 
facetious if I observe that this problem of the uni- 
verse is one to be approached with a feeling of great 
respect. At all events, my appeal is made seriously, 
and I regard it as by no means superfluous. For I 
have remarked in many people (final-causationists 
amongst them) who pretend to an interest in funda- 
mental questions a pronounced tendency to accept 
provisionally such explanations of the universe and 
of matter as are most readily comprehensible with 
reference to objects of common experience. But hu- 
man science is already in a position to aver that 
it is just such explanations as are most concretely 
comprehensible that may to best advantage be re- 
jected — and rejected not provisionally but finally. 

Faith in the competence of our five senses to ap- 
prehend any portion of ultimate reality has per- 
force been gradually abjured by those who would 
gain some understanding of the constitution of 
matter. It is an attitude at once more humble and 
more energetic that has been productive of our 
knowledge that the units of which matter is com- 
posed, whatever they may really be, do at least bear 
utterly no resemblance to matter as apprehended 
in the objects of common experience; that, though 
there must be a correspondence between the various 
apparent forms of matter and the atoms of which 
they are composed, the idea of resemblance — with 
reference to our sense-perceptions — is not to be 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 89 

thought of in connexion with this relation, since 
none of these atoms have ever been, nor could ever 
be, perceived by any of our senses. The com- 
petent investigator is not discouraged by the fact 
that a drawing or model of an atom cannot now nor 
ever will be made. He knows a good deal about the 
atom, may represent it partially in thought: it is 
an old friend. But one who looks at matter ex- 
clusively from the view-point of immediate con- 
cerns — one who regards his five senses as presum- 
ably more than merely ephemeral and theoretically 
clumsy implements of knowledge — is ipso facto 
incapable of adding to our present knowledge of the 
constitution of matter. 

What has been demonstrated of the relation of 
our sense-perceptions to the constitution of matter 
seems inevitably true of their relation to the basic 
problem, the nature of the ultra-material universe. 
From whatever point of view we approach this prob- 
lem we become conscious, sooner or later, of an 
inability to conceive the universe or its cause as 
having a geometrical form, which is the only kind 
of form contained in our experience. We must, 
then, ask ourselves, Is any conception of the uni- 
verse possible at the present time which, though 
failing of correspondence to any sense-perception, 
may nevertheless be maintained in thought? And 
in response it would seem that recourse must be 
had to the now familiar hypothesis of a measurable 



90 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

space or universe of dimensions other than three in 
number. 1 

At first glance this hypothesis has a promising 
look. The very fact that I can gain no idea of what 
an ungeometrical universe would look like, no matter 
how severely I strain my geometrical imagination, 
is a point in its favour. If it had a shape, I should 
know it could not be real; and whatever it may 
indeed be like, I know that the most meagre concep- 
tion I may gain of it must be forced upon me against 
most of my strongest habits of thought. For the 
book of the universe is not waiting to be suddenly 
flung open by the hand of genius and read off to us 
in a day or in a thousand years. It is to be learned 
painfully, correction following upon inference, word 
after reluctant word being wrested from long pages 
of meaningless characters. 

Whether, according to the hypothesis that I am 
considering, I assume space to have four dimensions 
or six or a multitude or only one, is of little moment 
at the outset of my enquiry, since I cannot refer any 
of these assumptions to an accomplished sense-im- 
pression. The points of immediate importance about 

1 1 am not conversant with the mass of astronomical evidence 
tending to show that space may be ungeometrical, nor would I in 
any case undertake to handle such evidence. Moreover, I wish 
to bring first under consideration not the possibility that space 
may be demonstrated ungeometrical, but some of the implica- 
tions of a universe in which it is assumed that space is ungeo- 
metrical. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 91 

this supposed universe are that it has no surface and 
no centre; that it contains a definite amount of 
space ; that in it any two bodies which, after meeting 
and separating, move persistently in such a way as 
to get as far away as possible from the place of meet- 
ing, will eventually meet again; that in it our 
geometrical conceptions, if they are to be evolved * 
at all, must be the resultants of ungeometrical pro- 
cesses. For the convenience of having a name, I 
will call this the universe of one dimension. 

Now, if I assume time to be a definite, knowable 
reality, — no matter, for the moment, whether in- 
dependent, nor what its duration may be, — and if 
I further assume the universe of one dimension to 
be entirely filled with (i.e. to consist of) a continuous, 
homogeneous substance such as we may conceive 
the ether to be, I find at once that a number of 
things may be said about such a universe. Instead 
of seeing predications and inferences developing 
rapidly into absurdities, as in the case of a geomet- 
rical or of an infinite universe, I find that I can pro- 
ceed some distance with the one-dimension universe 
without encountering any serious danger. I pro- 
pose now to enquire what would seem to be thus 
logically predicable of such a universe. 

I assume, then, that there existed at a certain time 

1 In this chapter the words "evolve" and "evolution " are 
obviously used in their widest sense, without reference to any 
specific doctrine of evolution. 



92 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

in the past a universe which, as a whole or in any part, 
was devoid of geometrical form and which consisted of 
a measurable amount of a continuous, homogeneous 
substance. 

Though this postulate may prove to contain within 
itself the necessity of modification of its own terms, 
I can at least promise that throughout the ensuing 
discussion nothing will be assumed further than is 
comprehended within these terms. 

If the assumed universe-substance — which we 
may conveniently call the cosmon — is measurable, 
we may treat it as consisting of a definite number of 
its ultimate units, or cosmoids, which are likewise 
the units of space, all space being filled with the 
cosmon. 

Similarly, if the cosmon is continuous, each cos- 
moid forms a part of a definite number of continuous 
lines of cosmoids — cosmic lines or cosmic diameters 
— passing through all other cosmoids and returning 
to the original cosmoid. In no case could a cosmic 
line pass between two cosmoids, embracing parts of 
each, — as it would appear to do in any geometrically 
graphic representation, — because the cosmoids are 

§of necessity indivisible. In the 
diagram (Fig. 1) let the cosmoid 
c be adjacent to both b and d, 
ag " and let the cosmic lines, or sec- 

tions of cosmic diameters, ab, ac, and ad, contain 
the same number of cosmoids. One cosmoid in each 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 93 

line will, then, be adjacent to a, and another will be 
adjacent to b, c, and d respectively. 

In a continuous cosmon having no surface and no 
centre it is not conceivable that any two cosmic 
diameters should have unequal lengths. Such in- 
equality would at once give to our universe a geo- 
metrical character; it would further imply that one 
cosmoid might be connected by its lines of adjacency 
with more cosmoids than might one of its fellows. 
But according to our assumption, each cosmoid must 
be connected with every other cosmoid; hence all 
cosmic diameters must contain the same number of 
cosmoids. 

If, then, we represent by U the number of cos- 
moids in the universe, and by D the number of cos- 
moids contained in a cosmic diameter, it follows that 

-yr equals the number of cosmic lines meeting in each 

2 U 
cosmoid, and that -jy equals the number of cos- 
moids adjacent to each cosmoid. 

It will be seen that the intersection of cosmic lines 
forms something different from a geometrical angle ; 
since, if prolonged far enough in either direction, 
the lines will meet again. Moreover, they neither 
diverge nor converge, but are always the same 
number of cosmoids distant from one another save 
in the cosmoid which they have in common. 

We have spoken of the cosmoids as differing from 



94 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

one another, not as being identical in such a way as 
to make of the universe one cosmoid. Yet they 
cannot differ in constitution, since the cosmon is 
homogeneous ; nor in size, since each of them is 
the smallest portion of a measurable universe. 
Consequently they cannot differ in mass nor in weight 
nor in any of the peculiar attributes of matter. 
Clearly, then, they may differ only in position. And 
it might reasonably be doubted if units so exactly 
alike and constituting the sum of all things could 
differ even in position, were it not for a further 
obvious consideration. 

The cosmoids, to exist, must be doing something. 
Not only is it matter of certain knowledge that every- 
thing contained in our experience, whether matter, 
ether, or mind, is in a state of ceaseless agitation, 
but it is impossible even to assume anything to be in 
a state of rest without soon becoming aware that its 
assumed reality is vanishing. Eventually it dis- 
appears from consciousness, destroying our belief 
in its former existence. Thus, though we can 
assume a moving, ungeometrical universe which 
corresponds to nothing that we have ever perceived, 
and maintain it in imperfect contemplation, believing 
that it may possibly evolve our familiar geometrical 
conceptions, any unmoving universe, geometrical 
or ungeometrical, that we may assume, will speedily 
fade from our consciousness and end with denying 
either its own existence or the competence of all 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 95 

human judgments, however partial. Since the exist- 
ence of an unknowable and extra-universal mind 
such as, in realising a state of rest, would inevitably 
repudiate all connexion with men and things, is a 
conception which cannot be maintained in the minds 
of these same men otherwise than verbally, we may 
proceed in the conviction that the existence of any- 
thing which concerns men in any way, however re- 
motely, implies its motion. And in the case of our 
assumed cosmon, any cosmoid that remained for any 
length of time at rest could not be regarded as 
existing, nor could any of the other cosmoids, which 
are exactly like this one in every respect save that 
one which depends upon their motion, be so regarded. 
If, then, our cosmoids exist, they must all be in 
motion and must continue in motion so long as they 
continue to exist. Position thus becomes intelligi- 
ble as the attribute possessed by each cosmoid in 
virtue both of its own motion and of the motion of 
every other cosmoid. 

We are now confronted with the question, Of what 
kinds of motion are the cosmoids capable? We 
have seen that they differ from one another only in 
respect of position, and it was with reference to their 
positions that we represented them by the letters 
a, b, c, etc. The necessary persistence of their move- 
ments means that each cosmoid will have a career 
different from that of every other cosmoid. But 
in what can their careers consist ? They cannot sub- 



96 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

divide nor increase in size nor alter their constitution. 
Can they rotate upon their axes? Even supposing 
that the smallest possible thing could have an axis 
with two poles, an indefinitely prolonged rotation of 
all these units would ultimately amount to a state 
of rest. Can they vibrate after the manner of an 
elastic sphere or ring ? Obviously there is no room 
in the one-dimension universe for such vibration 
which again would be deprived of reality by the 
levelling hand of time. Can they combine ? Closer 
combination than already exists in a continuous 
substance is not to be thought of. Clearly there is 
but one kind of motion possible for them, and that 
is change of position. 

Time, according to our assumption, is a measur- 
able reality composed of units which we may here 
call kinemas, or, successively, K 1, K 2, K 3, etc., K 1 
being that moment of time at which we have chosen 
to begin our consideration of the one-dimension 
universe. The kinema is, then, that portion of time 
in which the least of events may take place ; and in 
the case of the cosmon the least possible event is the 
movement of U cosmoids a distance of one cosmoid. 
Whatever may be the total duration of time, it is at 
all events certain that in each kinema every cosmoid 
would move a distance of one cosmoid. 

We have not treated the cosmoids at the time of 
which we are speaking as having had any earlier 
career or as being endowed with any other attribute 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 97 

than the essential necessity to move. We must 
therefore believe that their earliest motions will be 
of the simplest character; for it is hardly supposable 
that cosmoids utterly lacking in experience of a 
world such as we live in should set out to imitate in 
their motions the forms with which we are familiar 
in nature, — a leaf, a cloud, a curve, or a straight 
line. What there may be in an ungeometrical uni- 
verse simpler than motion in a curve or in a straight 
line could not, of course, be referred to any actual 
perception ; but if we consider some conceivable mo- 
tions of cosmoids in the earlier kinemas, we may be 
able to represent some of the simple ones in thought. 
In our first consideration of cosmic motions we need 
not approach the question of the ultimate nature of 
the cosmoid, — which will soon be forced upon us, — 
but may proceed strictly upon our assumption that 
the cosmoid is the imperishable smallest portion of 
the universe-substance. 

In Kl — no matter how, for the moment — let 
six cosmoids come into adjacent positions in a 
cosmic line, as shown in Figure 2; and in K2 let 
them take new positions, as in Figure 3. If in K 3, 

2 U 
having each — =— cosmoids for neighbours, they go 

back to their old positions of Figure 2, and the 
cosmoids of adjacent cosmic lines do likewise, they 
are assuredly not real cosmoids. We can no more 
conceive of the continued existence of a universe 



98 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

in which took place an indefinite oscillation of its 
units, as shown in Figures 2 and 3, than we could 

6 c a b d f 

#igv 2 



b a 

&g. 3 



«®5 e / a®<? 

Fig. 4 

ourselves continue to exist if the sum of our experi- 
ence was the contemplation of a blank wall with a 
spot on it. If the cosmoid a exists only by virtue 
of its ability to change its position, it cannot, having 
once experienced a change with b, change back 
again, thus showing a contradictory tendency towards 
what is ultimately equivalent to a state of rest. 
If a cosmoid exists, it makes a change of position ; if 
it still exists, its next move will not be the move of 
all moves most likely to destroy the significance of 
its previous move and so to disprove its own exist- 
ence, but rather the move of all moves least likely 
ultimately to have this result. In K3, the most 
obvious second move of each cosmoid would seem 
to be in the same cosmic line as its first move, and 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 99 

to a position as far removed as possible from its 
position of the first kinema. Not that a cosmoid is 
supposed to have what we call the property of inertia, 
nor the power nor the need to explain the exigencies 
of its situation. Being a cosmoid, it is essentially 
able and prone to shun a neighbour of which it has 
had recent experience. Thus, if Figures 2 and 3 
represent a portion of the happenings of K2, the 
cosmoids taking part in them will in K 3 take new 
positions, as shown in Figure 4; and in succeeding 
kinemas will continue in the same cosmic line. At 

the end of — — 1 kinemas all the cosmoids of this line 

would find themselves confronted by their earliest 
associates in the manner indicated in Figure 5. If c 
and d then changed places ^ . ^ __ 
with a and b, respectively, a c a b 
they would be inaugurating Flg * 5 

a cosmical revolution of which every kinema would 
be equivalent to the corresponding kinema of the 
oscillation supposed in connexion with Figures 2 and 
3, and which in its entirety would amount to a 
state of rest. In the next kinema, each cosmoid 

would, then, move into one of the j. — 1 new cosmic 

lines that lay open to it; and, after this first devia- 
tion, might conceivably continue in the new cosmic 

line for the most part, if not all, of — kinemas. 

Li 



100 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Motion in cosmic lines seems, then, to be the first 
and simplest motion in a universe of which the 
units possess but the one property, if we may call 
it such, of motion, and in which the only motion 
possible is change of relative positions. In such 
wise we may conceive them proceeding on their 
several journeys, only now and then being forced 
to turn aside from the simple course. The world is 
young, and there is an immense field to be explored 
by these restless spirits. We may call them free 
rovers; for, even though we may believe their 
roving to be limited by their nature in all respects, 
as we have already seen it to be in some respects, 
the fact that we are in absolute darkness as to the 
happenings of any single kinema gives an appearance 
of freedomto the choice of one amongst a vast number 
of what look to be equally feasible actions ; and we 
may therefore speak of their roving as free until 
such time as we may find them face to face with an 
obvious limitation, even as we speak of our own 
motions as free until we are confronted with an 
obvious limitation such as hunger or an unscalable 
wall or an unfordable stream. For example, given 
a cosmoid situated as is c in Figure 5 with a recently 
used cosmoid d directly behind it and a less re- 
cently used cosmoid a directly in front of it; any 
attempt on our part to ascertain the exact nature of 
c's next move would obviously be futile. The 
property of motion possessed by c may be spoken of 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 101 

as an ability to profit by experience; without this 
ability, that first move in K 2 — whether really its 
first move or not — would have been impossible. 
Then c would, in the position represented in Figure 
5, shun both d and a, taking a position in a new cos- 
mic line which would be distant from d and a, re- 
spectively, in proportion to the relative degrees of 
menace to c's existence represented, according to 
c's experience, by the proximity of these two familiar 
cosmoids. If we suppose this situation to have 

arisen at a much later period in c's life than — kine- 

mas from K 1, c would meanwhile have had the 
frequent experience that a less recently used cosmoid 
brings with it a more congenial following than a 
more recently used cosmoid. Then c would take a 
position more distant from d than from a; and its 
new position would be determined by its experience 
of the relative degrees of recentness of its alliances 
with d and with a. 

The question of the cosmoid 's real nature now 
forces itself upon our consideration. If c were a 
human brain, its memory would doubtless be quite 
inadequate as a basis for so nice discriminations as 
we have supposed it to exercise. But c, by assump- 
tion, is not a humanly knowing creature; and its 
so-called ability to profit by experience and to dis- 
tinguish between cosmoids exactly alike in size, 
shape, and constitution is a manner of speaking 



102 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

which may indeed be found useful in the course of 
this enquiry, but only after a more rigorous defini- 
tion has been attempted of the sole and essential 
property of the cosmoid. 

If c and a were spheres or cubes or portions of a 
straight line, the supposition of their mutual recog- 
nition and avoidance would be of no value even 
as a symbolical representation of their real per- 
formance. But, instead of any of these things, 
each of them in K 1 became a portion of a certain 
line containing D cosmoids and having no beginning 
and no end. This being the case, it is obvious that 

2 U 
all the -=r- cosmoids adjacent to c occupied different 

positions with reference both to c and to one another. 
And no cosmoid adjacent to a could occupy the same 
position with reference to a that any cosmoid oc- 
cupied with reference to c. Hence all cosmoids in 
the line in question occupied different positions 
with reference to c and to one another by virtue 
of their differences with reference to the adjacent 

cosmoids. But there are yr cosmic lines of which 

c is a portion, and these -=r lines contain all the cos- 
moids of the universe. Thus every cosmoid differs 
in position from every other cosmoid, not as we con- 
ceive position geometrically with reference always to 
some fixed object, but with reference both to its 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 103 

own motion and to the motion of every other cos- 
moid. This means that no cosmoid can ever occupy 
the same position that another cosmoid has occupied ; 
and that no cosmoid can ever again occupy a position 
that it has abandoned until itself and every other 
cosmoid in the universe have returned to the posi- 
tions they occupied immediately before its occupa- 
tion of the position in question. For example, c 
cannot again occupy its position of K 1 until itself 
and all other cosmoids have returned to the positions 
they occupied before K 1. 

Let us consider this aspect of the career of c 
travelling, as we have chosen to say, in its original 
cosmic line. This cosmic line, as we have seen, 
existed of necessity; but that any cosmoid should 
actually travel in it is at once seen to be an impos- 
sibility. For no sooner have c, a, etc., made their 
first moves in K 2 (Figs. 2 and 3) than this cosmic 
line has ceased to exist and a new cosmic line has ap- 
peared that never existed before. If we regard the 
cosmoids that formed the old line as still existing, 
we must at the same time observe that each of them 

2 U 

is adjacent to -y- cosmoids none of which occupy 

the same relative positions with reference to it that 

2 U 
were occupied by any of the earlier set of -y- ad- 
jacent cosmoids. For example, /is not in the same 
position with reference to a as was b in the preceding 



104 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

kinema. Both / and b at any time have position 
with reference both to their own motions and to the 
motions of their adjacent cosmoids. Since their 
adjacent cosmoids are always in motion, /can never 
come into the same position in relation to any cos- 
moid that was occupied by 6. Thus a and / come 
into a juxtaposition that is mutually different from 
the earlier juxtaposition of a and b. And in pro- 
ceeding farther they do not, as we have said for con- 
venience of language, change places; having met, 
they pass on, taking those new positions which alone 
were made possible by the conditions of their ad- 
jacency to one another and to the surrounding cos- 
moids. Similarly, when at the end of — kinemas 

c and a again meet they do not, as we have said, 
refuse to change places, but pass on each into dif- 
ferent surroundings from any that could ever be 
experienced by another cosmoid. If the motive 
impulse with which c and adjacent cosmoids were 
endowed at the end of K 1 carried them forward in 
lines as similarly adjacent as possible, each of them 

would at the end of — kinemas have swerved from 

its original cosmic line — times, and each swerving 

of each cosmoid would have been different from each 
swerving of every other cosmoid. Thus c would in 

K (-jr + 1) find itself in the midst of cosmoids each 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 105 

of which occupied a position as different from its posi- 
tion of K 1 as it had been possible to realise in the 

course of — kinemas, and to no one of which could 

c bear the same relation that it bore to any of the 
cosmoids adjacent to it in K 1. 

It is clear that our original cosmic line was merely 
a fleeting relation, which is precisely what we should 
have expected in the first place. If cosmoids might 
have travelled in it and so maintained it, it could 
hardly have been a reality in a universe of which 
the sole attribute is change. The cosmic line was 
composed of certain cosmoids which we represented 
by the letters a, b, c, etc. But if the motive impulse 
of K 1 was such as to produce the moves represented 
in Figures 2 and 3, any moves that followed would 
be as simple as any other moves; since each move 
of each cosmoid must realise a difference from its 
former position of which the coefficient would be 

2 U 

the -jy new relationships constituting its position at 

any time. And in the case of any cosmoid, the only 
thing that would differentiate any two of its moves 
would be their relative positions in time. 

It seems impossible to contemplate in thought 
any universe, one-dimensional or other, of which 
this, or an equivalent, statement would not be true. 
It matters not if we choose to speak of progress from 
the more simple to the more complex, — terms which 



106 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

have perhaps no ultimate significance. The unique 
and inevitable conception of a universe that is to be 
maintained in contemplation is the conception of its 
identity with continuous progress into the different. 
It is likewise inconceivable that any progress should 
fail to realise a difference while new differences re- 
mained to be realised. Progress may realise what 
we call a similarity or repetition only at that point 
at which all possible differences have been realised. 
If progress realised a similarity before that point was 
reached, the remaining unrealised differences could 
not be apprehended in any way. For a universe 
that is not infinite cannot have two separate exist- 
ences, one of higher value than the other. If 
progress, after realising a similarity, proceeded to 
realise more or fewer differences than had before been 
realised, the universe must be infinite and incapable 
of apprehension. But in an infinite universe differ- 
ences would be an absurdity; for it would be im- 
possible that any two differences should have an 
equal or an unequal value. In the one-dimension 
universe differences must not be an absurdity but 
the only reality ; and similarity or repetition is only 
a manner of speaking which has no ultimate descrip- 
tive value. All possible differences form the sum of 
the one-dimension universe; and at the end of all 
possible differences it is not similarities or repetitions 
that are then realised, since two differences that 
are in reality exactly the same do not constitute a 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 107 

similarity or a repetition or a subject for compari- 
son in any way. 

Thus our cosmoid c will never again be a part of 
its original cosmic line until it has been a part suc- 
cessively of as many other cosmic lines as there are 
units of time. 

Hence it is clear that our cosmoids are themselves 
fleeting relations, like the cosmic lines. They are 
real solely in virtue of their change of position. Any 
move made by c is into a position different in every 
respect from its former position. This is to say, 
the total reality of c has fled and an entirely new 
reality has appeared. And not until as many new 
realities have appeared as may follow one upon 
another, beginning with c, will the original c be 
realised. 

It matters not, then, whether we regard the cosmon 
as motion or as a substance, since the two are neces- 
sarily identical. But, for the convenience of lan- 
guage it will be advisable to speak of the cosmon as 
of a substance from which motion is inseparable, 
and of a cosmoid as imperishable. The "substance" 
with which we are all immediately familiar has been 
alluded to at the beginning of this chapter. Theo- 
retically it is of no importance whether we conceive 
matter as a substance or not ; for we already know 
that matter is composed of units — whether or not 
these be its ultimate units — to which to apply most 
of the well-known attributes of matter would be a 



108 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

piece of irrelevance, whilst there is no reason to 
believe any of the remaining attributes of matter to 
be in any degree more definitely applicable. In other 
words, it is virtually a practical as well as theoretical 
necessity that the so-called properties or attributes 
of matter compose man's as yet inexact description 
of matter ; the basis of his description being appear- 
ances derived from unobserved processes that do 
not follow material laws. But in speaking of matter 
we find that language and most of our habits of 
thought have been formed in accordance with the 
supposition that matter is composed of particles 
that are hard, soft, dense, elastic, heavy ; so that the 
reduction to words of theoretical considerations of 
matter is generally a twofold process: a compara- 
tively brief statement in traditional terms fol- 
lowed by the elaborate and unconventional phrases 
of a rigorous correction. 

The case of our consideration of the one-dimen- 
sion universe will be found similar. To describe 
in familiar terms any conceivable happenings in a 
universe in which at any moment of time nothing 
was to be found which had been there at the pre- 
ceding moment, would be difficult and wearisome, 
nay impossible. The assumption of an appreciable 
degree of permanence in things is a necessary con- 
dition of actual verbal expression, and we shall 
therefore find it convenient in the main to keep to 
the symbolical treatment of the cosmoids with which 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



109 



we began. But in order that their real 1 nature be 
not obscured by the factitious attribute with which 
we must invest them, it will be necessary first to 
establish as rigorously as possible the correspondence 
between the two and at later stages of our inquiry 
to recur frequently to this correspondence. 



The real cosmoid, being 
the least possible change of 
position, disappears with the 
kinema and is replaced by 
another cosmoid different 
from the old in respect of 

the -jr- ajdacent cosmoids. 

If T equal the number of 
kinemas in all time, each 
cosmoid is realised but once 
in the space of T kinemas. 

The real cosmoid and 
its successors stray farther 
from the original cosmic 
line of Kl with each suc- 
cessive kinema, and the 
farther they have strayed 
from it, the nearer have 
they approached to its real- 
isation which takes place 
once in T kinemas. 



The apparent cosmoid, 
being the smallest portion 
of an imperishable sub- 
stance, persists as such 
through all time; but in 
no two of the T successive 
kinemas is it found occupy- 
ing the same position rel- 
atively to any of the -jr- 
adjacent cosmoids. 



The apparent cosmoid 
keeps to any cosmic line in 
which it has been travelling 
as long as it may, — by 
virtue of its tendency to get 
as far away as possible from 
a recently used cosmoid 
which contains a menace 
to its existence. After K 1 
every cosmoid keeps to a 

cosmic line for — kinemas, 

when it encounters a fa- 

^'Real" is obviously a convenient word to use; see last 
paragraph of this chapter. 



110 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 



The total difference be- 
tween two series of T real 
cosmoids each — as of the 
series beginning respec- 
tively with c and a, Figure 
2 — may be represented by 

the quantity T( — =- J, since 

the original differences be- 
tween c and a were as many 
as the number of relations 
borne by either to its ad- 
jacent cosmoids taken as 
many times as there were 
relations existing between 
the other and its adjacent 
cosmoids. For example, 
the relation of c to e was 
different from each of a's 
relationships to its adjacent 



miliar cosmoid, and both are 
in consequence diverted into 
new cosmic lines. At a 
later stage of the cosmic 
life, when long persistence in 
cosmic lines becomes more 
difficult and in consequence 
less frequent, an apparent 
cosmoid may nevertheless, if 
favoured by chance or by 
a suitable organisation of 
the cosmon, persist in a 
D 



cosmic line for — 



kinemas 
or an even longer period. 



An apparent cosmoid is 
more unfriendly to an ap- 
parent cosmoid more re- 
cently used than to one less 
recently used, for it has 
learned from experience that 
if it changes places with the 
former, it is more likely 
to find itself in uncongenial 
company. For the pur- 
poses of the present enquiry 
we need not attempt to give 
any provisional symbolical 
values to the degrees of 
friendliness or unfriendliness 
existing between cosmoids 
that meet under various 
circumstances. We have 
not assumed that the appar- 
ent cosmoid c had had any 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



111 



cosmoids; and the same 
may be said of each of the 
other relationships that 
went to make up c's reality 
in the universe. Now, the 
contemporaneous successors 
of c and a will, in the course 
of T kinemas, become ad- 
jacent to one another a 
certain number of times, — 
probably many more than 
U 2 times, — and on any 
occasion of their adjacency 
the two series will have 
before them a total differ- 
ence of T^Pj. For K 1 

was not supposed to be the 
beginning of the universe, 
but simply a convenient 
point from which to under- 
take a consideration of it. 
And supposing two succes- 
sors of c and a (as c' and a') 
to become adjacent in a 
certain kinema; and two 
other successors (as c" and 
a") to become adjacent x 
kinemas later; the differ- 
ence between the series 
c' — c ,; and the series a f — a" 

will be x I -=r- ) ; and the dif- 
ference between the series, c" 
— c f and the series a" — a' 

w\\\be(T — x)(^-\ But if 



experience whatever pre- 
viously to XI, nor that it 
had any knowledge . of the 
value of T. And there is 
no question of ascribing 
to the apparent cosmoids 
any property further than 
that which is expressibly 
symbolical of actual pro- 
cesses in the one-dimension 
universe; to wit, an ability 
to profit by the experience 
of all kinemas since K 1. 
The apparent cosmoid, then, 
gets as far away as possible 
from the cosmoid with 
which it last changed places, 
— i.e. it travels in a cosmic 
line, — unless another men- 
ace appears directly in its 
path; in which case it 
leaves the old cosmic line 
in favour of the best alli- 
ance it can make in the light 
of its experience since K 1. 
From force of circumstances 
it may often remain adja- 
cent to another cosmoid 
for a certain period; but 
the farther this period is 
prolonged, the more im- 
perative becomes the need 
of separation. 



112 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 



c" and a" became adja- 
cent 2 x kinemas later than 
c f and a', instead of only x 
kinemas later, the difference 
between the series c" — c' 
and the series a" — a' 



would be (T- 2 



m » 



is seen, then, that the differ- 
ence subsequently to be 
realised by the adjacent 
successors of any originally 
adjacent cosmoids, before 
the first adjacency is again 
realised, is greater if the 
shortest interval between 
the two adj acencies is lesser, 
and lesser if the shortest 
interval is greater. Hence 
contemporaneous succes- 
sors of two cosmoids may 
remain adjacent for a 
certain number of kinemas; 
but, the universe not being 
infinite, they could not re- 
main indefinitely adjacent 
unless some distant cos- 
moids remained fixed. For 
sooner or later this persist- 
ent adjacency would mean 
that other cosmoids must 
be persistently maintaining 
their adjacency. Event- 
ually all pairs of cosmoids 
would be maintaining their 
adjacency, for they would 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



113 



not be admitted to the novel 
differences of other sur- 
roundings where adjacen- 
cies were being persistently 
maintained. That all pairs 
of cosmoids should thus 
maintain their adjacencies 
without coming to rest is 
plainly impossible. Nor 
could the successors of two 
cosmoids become adjacent 
with more than a definite 
frequency. Thus, the suc- 
cessors of any two cosmoids 
whose series contain, as 
do the series of all pairs of 
cosmoids, a definite number 
of mutual adjacencies, 
would tend to protracted 
separations after protracted 
associations, and vice versa. 



Let us now proceed with our enquiry into the 
careers conceivably open to our imperishable ap- 
parent cosmoids, bearing always in mind their 
symbolical character, and pausing from time to time 
to examine the correspondence between them and 
their prototypes. At the time when we were forced 
to investigate their title to the beginnings of this 
symbolic existence, we left them embarked on their 
several voyages through regions as yet comparatively 
free from danger. Free rovers we called them, since 
in no situation could we say exactly what they would 



114 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

do, whilst in some situations we might not even be 
able to say what they would not do. Ignorant as 

they are of the value either of T or of -=:, they have 

as their sole equipment for life an ability to profit 
by their immediate experience of every kinema since 
K 1. Their prototypes, the persistent series of real 
cosmoids, may be, and doubtless are, much better 
equipped; so well, in fact, as to eliminate all pos- 
sibility of error. But we may find it of advantage 
to inquire if the apparent cosmoids are likely to 
justify their claim to a symbolic existence for all 
time. If they may not possibly justify this claim 
for the T kinemas of which they know nothing, they 
have no symbolic value in the one-dimension uni- 
verse in which change must be realised in all possible 
degrees. Since we are ourselves ignorant of the 

value either of T or of =r, it will of course be im- 
possible to trace their careers even in a general way 
beyond a portion, unknown in extent, of those T 
kinemas that go to make up all time. But the re- 
sults of any enquiry that should show these meagrely 
equipped cosmoids able to overcome the enormous 
difficulties they must early encounter and so to con- 
tinue to exist for any considerable period must pos- 
sess some interest, since they could only be reached 
through the discovery that a menace to the cos- 
moids' existence brought with it a measure of relief; 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 115 

or, in other words, that the essential property of 
the cosmoids was, at least to some extent, a vital 
principle. 

Our cosmoid c was at the end of — kinemas 

debarred, for the moment, from further progress in 

its original cosmic line. At the end of at most — 

more kinemas, it will be diverted from its new cosmic 
line. With growing experience it will come to be 
only by a rare chance, if at all, that c may proceed 

for as many as — kinemas in any cosmic line : its 

simple course will be interrupted with ever greater 
frequency. Each succeeding kinema subtracts one 
from the number of admissible or new arrangements 

2 U 

of -j- cosmoids around c; and it may subtract 

many more than one from the number of admissible 
or new arrangements that are to all appearances 
available within the time in which the demand for 
them shall become imperative. It might be ex- 
pected that, long before all possible arrangements 
had been exhausted, c or any other cosmoid should 
suddenly find itself in a critical situation ; i.e. sur- 
rounded by a choice of arrangements all of which 
had been used, whilst the many admissible arrange- 
ments were inaccessible. It is to be remembered 
that we have not assumed the cosmoids to be 
endowed with any gift of foresight such as would 



116 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

enable them to regulate the cosmic traffic and so to 
avert a fatal block. It is not supposed that any 

2 U 

cosmoid should ever look beyond the -yr- adjacent 

cosmoids of which alone and of whose relative 
positions it may apprehend the various degrees of 
strangeness or familiarity. It might, then, seem 
highly probable that the ability of the cosmoids to 
profit by their experience since K 1 would soon prove 
quite inadequate to prevent the development, 
somewhere in the universe, of a block such as would 
finally demonstrate the futility of our initial assump- 
tion. 

But the earliest and perhaps by no means urgent 
menaces of such a dead-lock must inevitably give 
rise to a certain group of changes, which would be 
realised a vast number of times in all parts of the 
cosmon, often simultaneously, and under the most 
various circumstances. Indeed the one-dimension 
universe must have been comparatively young when, 

2 U 
for the first time, all the -=r- cosmoids adjacent to 

any cosmoid, as c, found that amongst the great 
variety of changes open to them, none of which 
contained a warning of proximate embarrassment, 
the obvious changes lay nevertheless amongst them- 
selves or with c (Fig. 6). With the growing require- 
ment of more frequent deviation from cosmic lines, 
such groups of changes, or centre-changes, as we may 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 117 

call them, would be realised in greater numbers, at 
shorter intervals, more often simultaneously. It 
seems clear, indeed, that the * 

centre-change is the destiny of 
all cosmoids. Though it may (l) « c a 

be an incomplete definition of 
the ultimate destiny of all cos- " b 

moids, it is clearly a stage 
through which all cosmoids 
must sooner or later pass, if 
they are to persist to the end f 

of time. But if all cosmoids, € « 

before exhausting the possibili- 
ties of free-roving, should at any 
time find themselves participat- b d 

ing simultaneously in centre- 9 

changes and with no prospect Eig. 6 

of escape from these centre-changes, they could have 
no correspondence with anything that is real in the 
universe. And there can be no doubt but this crisis 
would eventually arise unless the centre-change itself 
should contain possibilities of an influence upon the 
cosmon such as would prevent the too frequent and 
too numerous formation of its kind and at the same 
time regularise the process of free-roving sufficiently 
to admit of the exploitation of its total resources. 
We must, then, enquire if the nature of the centre- 
change is such as to make it probable that its in- 
creasingly frequent formation would have this result. 



118 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

That, early in the cosmic life when needs are not 
pressing, a centre-change should long be maintained 
by the same cosmoids, is of course extremely unlikely ; 
and in those kinemas in which it was so maintained it 
would clearly have no direct effect upon the free- 
roving cosmoids nor upon other centre-changes. 

On the other hand, a centre-change that was 
realised in one kinema and dissipated in the next 
without being replaced by another centre-change 
would be equally barren of systematic consequences ; 
it would be nothing more than an incident of the 
process of free-roving. 

It is, then, readily to be seen that the centre- 
change most likely to have a considerable effect 
upon the cosmon would be one that was maintained 
for a considerable period, being renewed on each oc- 
casion by a different set of cosmoids. 

The following questions at once arise. Could a 
centre-change be so maintained? If so, upon what 
conditions, and would these conditions probably be 
present in the cosmon ? What, finally, would be the 
effect upon the cosmon of a centre-change so main- 
tained ? 

We may consider these questions in the order 
named; but it will first be necessary to gain some 
idea of the relations borne to the surrounding cosmon 

2 U 
by a group of -~- cosmoids, all of which are adjacent 

to the same cosmoid. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



119 



2 U 
At (1) in Figure 6 — in which the -y- cosmoids 

adjacent to c are represented by a, f, d, etc. — it 
will be seen that the cosmic lines ca and cf, if pro- 
longed throughout the cosmon, will always remain 
adjacent ; otherwise there must be a cosmoid between 
a and/ to form part of a cosmic line with c and some 
third cosmoid lying between the prolonged lines ca 
and cf, — which is inadmissible according to our 
initial assumption. This means that the number of 
surrounding cosmoids adjacent to a, f, d, etc., is 



r 



r 



r 



% 

\ 


/ 


/ 


/ 

9 




A 



2 JL 

D * 



Fig. 7 



These are represented in Figure 7 by the cos- 
moids a' ', f, d', etc. ; and the second outlying set of 
2U 
D 



cosmoids, by a",/", d", etc. 



120 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Let us try to discover how many cosmic lines or 
portions of cosmic diameters are represented in 
Figure 7. 

From our earlier considerations we know that a 
cosmic diameter must be that portion of the cosmon 

in which neither more nor less than — - consecutive 

changes of position of its D component cosmoids 
would bring each cosmoid face to face with its original 
neighbour. Each of the cosmoids would then have 
met one-half of the cosmoids of the line, and would 
not have met any of those cosmoids which are sepa- 
rated from it by distances of two, four, six etc., cos- 
moids. 

In Figure 7 a is separated from b by c, these three 
cosmoids being in the same cosmic line. 

The question then arises, From how many more 
cosmoids, if from any, of the set afd is a separated ? 

Let us suppose /to be adjacent to both a and d; d 
to h] h to b; but a to be not adjacent to d nor h) 
nor b to d nor/; nor h to/ 

But a must be in a cosmic line with d and with h, 
because every cosmoid is in a cosmic line with every 
other cosmoid ; and / must likewise be in a cosmic 
line with h and with b. 

The cosmic line which contains both a and d must 
obviously (upon our supposition) contain either c or 
/or/', — i.e. if/' is indeed adjacent to both a and d. 

The line acdd' ... e' would contain D cosmoids; 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 121 

but e' could not, upon our supposition, be adjacent 
to a. Therefore this is not a cosmic diameter. 
The line acdW ... i' would contain D + 1 cosmoids; 
and acdh' ... i' could not be a cosmic diameter unless 

2 U 

-jr- equalled eight; which, as we shall later see, is 

virtually impossible. 

If afd is a cosmic line, fdh and dhb would also be 
cosmic lines; and afdhbgei would be a cosmic 
diameter. But in the line afdhbgei such motions as 
are peculiar to the cosmic diameter could not take 
place unless c should remain fixed. 

For reasons similar to the above, any conceivable 
prolongation of the line afd would fail to satisfy 
the requirements of a cosmic diameter. 

It is, then, clear that a must be adjacent to d and 
that, for similar reasons, each of the cosmoids afd, 
etc., must be adjacent to all the others except that 
one from which it is separated by c. 

Thus, a and d are common to the two cosmic 
diameters adbb' ... a 7 and daee' ... d' '; and they alone 
are common to these diameters. 

On the other hand, a and b must be common to no 

less than -=r cosmic diameters, acb, afb, adb, etc., 

all of which are identical in all but one cosmoid 
(c, /, d, etc.). Furthermore a, as we have seen, is a 

part of no less than yr — 1 other cosmic diameters, 
fag, dae, etc. ; and the same is true of /, 6, etc. 



122 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Each cosmoid of the first outlying set is, then, a part 

3 U 

of no less than -=r — 1 lines that are unquestionably 

cosmic diameters ; and unless this were true, it would 
be impossible that each of these cosmoids should be in 
a cosmic line with every other cosmoid in the universe. 
That earlier statement which we believed to be 
inevitably true — that any cosmoid may form a 

part of neither more nor less than — cosmic lines — 

seems now to be contradicted. 

Let us make a further examination of the diagram. 
If, as we have said, each of the cosmoids afd, etc., is 
adjacent to all the others except that one from which 
it is separated by c, it may be adjacent, according to 
our earliest assumption, to but one other cosmoid, — 
i.e. a would be adjacent to a', / to /', etc.; but a 
would not be adjacent to/ 7 . And a', which must be 
adjacent to /' and to all other cosmoids of the set 
a'f'd' except V, would in addition be adjacent to one 
cosmoid (a") of the set a"f"d" . 

Figure 8 represents the same kinema as Figure 7, 
but from the point of view of the relationships of 
the cosmoid a; Figure 9, from the point of view of a'. 

In Figure 8 it appears that a', which we thought to 
have proved adjacent only to a, a", and all members 
of the a'f'd' set except b' is in addition adjacent to 
all members of the afd set except b. Similarly, b 

2 U 
turns out to be adjacent to -~ 1 members of the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



123 



a'j'd! set instead of to only one member of that set, 
as we thought to have proved ; and a" is contradic- 
2U 



torily adjacent to 



D 



1 members of the a'f'd' set 



9' 





%• 


/ 


i 

\ 




/ 


\ 

i 

/ 


/ 

I 


d 


/ 

9 




h 



r 



b' 
Fig. 8 

In Figure 9 it is seen that both a" and b have a still 
more extensive acquaintance than was indicated in 

2 U 

Figure 8 ; for a" is now adjacent to -=r 1 members 

2 U 

of the afd set, whilst b is adjacent to -jz — 1 mem- 
bers of the a"/"d" set. 

In such wise may it be shown that every cosmoid 
but one in the universe is at any time adjacent to 
every other cosmoid save, in any instance,/)— 2 of the 
cosmoids of that single cosmic diameter to which it 
is common together with that cosmoid which has 



124 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

2 U 
obviously but -jr- adjacent cosmoids. In Figure 7, 

for example, a! may be regarded as adjacent to every 
cosmoid in the universe save D— 2. It may not be 
regarded as adjacent to itself, nor to c, b, &', ... a'"; 



€' 



a'» 



r 



r 



a' a' 



b 



2U 



c being obviously adjacent to but -=r- cosmoids. 

2 U 
Again, if /" be represented with its-y- adjacent 

cosmoids, c may be regarded as adjacent to a and to 
every other cosmoid in the universe except /', /", /'" ', 

These results may suggest the following reflections. 

We have no knowledge of anything comparable to 
these apparent cosmoids, which have indeed proved 
contradictory of what has often been declared to be a 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 125 

truth of the highest certainty. That a geometrical 
point or sphere, or an atom of matter, should of 
necessity be adjacent to no more than a certain 
number of other things and should, at the same 
time and of equal necessity, be adjacent to vastly 
more than this number of other things, is manifestly 
out of the question. No further progress in our con- 
sideration of the apparent cosmoids seems possible ; 
not because we have led them into an absurdity, but 
because they seem incapable of further treatment 
with the means at our command. That they are by 
no means necessarily lodged in absurdity is suffi- 
ciently clear; since our recent considerations have 
but served to bring out the self-assertiveness of that 
uncomprehended reality which lies beneath our 
symbols. A real cosmoid, be it remembered, is a 
change of position inseparable from a kinema. The 
cosmoid-position at any time with reference to 
surrounding cosmoid-positions is not to be deter- 
mined with reference rather to the end of the kinema 
than to its beginning, nor vice versa. Yet the 
kinema implies a difference in it. And kinemas are 
not only not divisible into parts, but are not separable 
one from another any more than cosmoids are so 
separable. Thus we are confronted with the con- 
clusion that we must have expected to reach in our 
consideration of the one-dimension universe: that 
our unit of time is not expressible in terms of seconds, 
nor our unit of space in terms of inches or of cubic 



126 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

inches ; that when we speak of two kinemas or of five 
cosmoids, we do so purely in deference to our neces- 
sarily geometrical point of view; the real cosmoid 
having an existence inseparable from the whole cos- 
mon, the real kinema, an existence inseparable from 
all time. A single real cosmoid or change, if com- 
pletely understood, would inevitably reveal the nature 
of every other cosmoid, for its existence is deter- 
mined by that of all other cosmoids. And, similarly, a 
single kinema, if completely understood, must reveal 
the nature of all other kinemas. Since, moreover, 
the cosmoids are inseparable from the kinemas, each 
single cosmoid implies the total possibilities of the 
universe ; kinemas thus become equivalent to cos- 
moids. It follows that, though our single apparent 
cosmoid requires the quasi-geometrical adjacency of 

2 U 

not more than -=- other cosmoids, the ungeometri- 

cal nature of the real cosmoid requires the "adja- 
cency" of all other cosmoids. We may, then, have an 
undiminished faith in our one-dimension universe. 
That no other universe seems capable of being main- 
tained in thought; that many implications of 
matter and of mind point significantly to this one- 
dimension universe: the force of these considera- 
tions is strengthened, not weakened, by the discovery 
that the reality behind our symbolical cosmoids is 
ever ready to thwart our attempts to represent them 
geometrically. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 127 

The real difficulty that has arisen is one of treat- 
ment. If no correspondence is apparent between 
geometrical concepts and the ever menaced symbols 
of real cosmic processes, of what use has been this 
detailed consideration of the cosmoids ? Geometrical 
concepts, whether fundamental or not, exist in the 
universe in which we live, and they influence all 
our considerations even of ungeometrical processes. 
If we cannot discover how they are derived from the 
processes of the one-dimension universe, of what use 
is it to know if the apparent cosmoids may continue 
to exist for a considerable period? How, indeed, 
could this be known? What can be the possible 
significance of a centre-change? 

But if we again consult these diagrams which have 
exhibited the geometrical contradiction of the ad- 
jacency of cosmoids, we shall find that they do at 
the same time exhibit a striking correspondence 
between a certain feature of the one-dimension uni- 
verse and a familiar geometrical concept. 

In Figure 7, c is a cosmoid which separates a from b 

and prevents the adjacency of a' to b', of a" to b n ', etc. 

It exercises this power solely by virtue of its being 

2 U 
adjacent to but -=- other cosmoids. 

In Figure 9, a! alone, of all the cosmoids repre- 

2 U 

sented, is adjacent to no more than -jr- cosmoids. 

Our earliest conception of the real cosmoids 



128 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

(page 98 et seq.) has been modified so that, with 

reference to the whole cosmon in all time, we regard 

both c, in Figure 7, and a', in Figure 9, as adjacent to all 

other cosmoids. But all time and all cosmon have 

definite values by virtue of the differences existing 

within them, even though these differences be not 

finally measurable by the numbers which we use in 

describing the enduring appearances of actual life. 

And, though the divisibility of time into T kinemas, 

and of the cosmon into U cosmoids, be, as we have 

seen, but an illusory though practically necessary 

verbal image, it is impossible either in diagram or in 

thought to represent the cosmon as devoid of such 

. 2 U 
restrictive relations as that of c (Fig. 7) to its -yr- 

adjacent cosmoids. Such relations, indeed, are 
ubiquitous and belong to all our diagrammatic 
cosmoids. Regarded geometrically, they are fixed 
for all time, bearing certain relations to one another 
which never vary. The cosmoid c and its successors 
do not remain in the positions represented in Figure 

2 U 

7, but the relation of one cosmoid to -=r adjacent 

cosmoids remains. There are always as many such 
relations as there are cosmoids in the universe. 
These fixed relations are, as we know, purely imagi- 
nary ; they form the limitation of the real ; or again, as 
represented in thought, they are those unreal rela- 
tions with reference to which alone real relations 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 129 

may be comprehended. So far as we have consid- 
ered them, they seem, then, precisely equivalent to 
geometrical points. 

That they could never be apprehended in thought 
or otherwise unless the real should persist through 
time, is obvious. But if, upon this field of U un- 
real relations, things may move and bear varying, 
not fixed, relations to one another, the unreal re- 
lations may be of value as a measure of these real 
motions or relations. The question arises, What 
motion, if any, may take place upon this field of 
unreal relations? 

Our free-roving, apparent cosmoids may never 
move save to form a part of these unreal relations 
which bear fixed relations to one another. 

But an unreal relation may itself be conceived 
as moving from one position to another; it would 
then be the unreal thing necessarily postulated when 
real motion is to be apprehended in any way. In 
such motion the assumed c and its adjacent afd, 
etc. (Fig. 7), would sooner or later disappear from 
the relation, being replaced by other cosmoids; 
but the relation that existed between c and afd 
would be preserved instead of becoming identified 
with another relation such as that of a to afd 
(Fig. 8). 

If the relation between c and afd is to be pre- 
served, each successive set of cosmoids that form 
this relation must be supposed to remain in the 



130 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

relation during at least one of the units of time. 
For if afd should no sooner become adjacent to c 
and to one another than some of them withdrew, 
the relation would have been in no way different 
from those other U—l relations that bear immutable 
relations to one another. It would therefore be 
incapable of motion. It would be simply an in- 
cident of the process of free-roving which invariably 
leads cosmoids into fixed relations. To establish 
a relation that is not incapable of motion, the process 
of free-roving must, then, be modified. And the 
only obvious possibility of a modification of free- 
roving lies in the formation of the centre-change, — 
a change which has been seen to be inevitable. The 
cosmoids a, /, d, and c, on becoming adjacent, move 
in some such way as indicated in Figure 6, and their 
successors in the relation do likewise. It is clear 
that, if the relation is to be maintained for a 
period of time sufficient to give any significance to 
its formation, it must exercise some organising in- 
fluence upon the cosmon adequate to the require- 
ment that at regular intervals a definite amount of 
such cosmoids be brought to its borders as are capable 
of the mutual interchanges indicated in Figure 6. 
In other words, while the unreal relations of free- 
roving cosmoids remain fixed in their positions, 
and while even a, f, d, and their successors in the 
mobile relation are themselves participating in 
unreal relations, our initially mobile relation must 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 131 

be using all cosmoids within reach of its influence 
to preserve its mobility. 

It is seen, then, that if the value of the geo- 
metrical point as a conception precedent to the 
comprehension of any motion in the one-dimension 
universe is to be demonstrated, it must probably be 
through that same formation and process through 
which alone the symbolic existence of the apparent 
cosmoids may be prolonged for a greater period 
than would be possible under the conditions of free- 
roving alone: the formation, to wit, of the centre- 
change, and the process by which it may be sys- 
tematically maintained. 

In the course of our further enquiry it will appear 
that, if there is indeed any cosmical process adequate 
to the prolonged maintenance of a centre-change, 
such a process would maintain the centre-change 
equally well in a state of real motion and in a state 
of imaginary rest. Which is only a manner of saying 
that the centre-change might have different rates 
of motion in time: that it would not necessarily 
move in a cosmic line at the rate of one cosmoid 
per kinema, but might equally well move at the 
rate of one cosmoid per three or five or any number 
of kinemas. But, since the cosmoid is the assumptive 
spatial unit of the one-dimension universe, it follows 
that the centre- change, during any kinema in which 
it is not moving a distance of one cosmoid, is in a 
state of assumptive rest. In examining any sys- 



132 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

terns of supply adequate or inadequate for the 
maintenance of a centre-change it will, then, be 
convenient first to regard the centre- change as 
in a state of rest, and reserve for a later considera- 
tion the implications of its motion. 

It will further appear, in the course of our enquiry, 
that only those centre- changes could survive for 
a considerable period which were supplied under 
a system having the highest possible efficiency; 
that any centre-change supplied under a system 
having a lower degree of efficiency would labour 
under disadvantages so great that it would in a 
comparatively short time give way to other centre- 
changes supplied under the most efficient system. 

It being obvious, as we have already observed, 
that the centre-change possessed of the highest 
organising power over the cosmon would be one 
from which as many as possible of the participating 
cosmoids depart in each second kinema, to be re- 
placed by other cosmoids, it is to this kind of centre- 
change that we may with a saving of time confine 
our attention. 

The number of cosmoids that may depart from 

a centre-change in each second kinema is approxi- 

2U 2U 

mately -jr-. The symbolical quantity -=p if it 

were exactly expressible in numbers, would doubt- 
less be so great that we should not need to concern 
ourselves with the questions, whether it were ex- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 133 

pressible by an even or by an odd number; nor 
whether such a mutual interchange as that of c, a, 
and /, in Figure 6, were symbolically a suitable rep- 
resentation of a real occurrence in the one-dimen- 
sion universe. Whether the output of the centre- 

2 U 

change per two kinemas would be -=r- cosmoids, or 

— 1, or -j: 2, is therefore a question possess- 
ing no great significance in the present enquiry. 
What we wish to ascertain is, what possible influence 
upon the cosmon, and secondarily upon the centre- 
change itself, would be exerted by the departure from 
a centre-change of the maximum amount of cosmoids 
per two kinemas, and by any conceivable subse- 
quent dispositions of these cosmoids. And for con- 
venience we may suppose this maximum output per 

two kinemas to be —=r- cosmoids. 

2 U 

Now, it is obvious that these -y- cosmoids, after 

executing a centre-change, must, if they then depart 
from the centre- change, depart from it in cosmic 
lines, leading to the centre-change. For example, 
afd, etc., in Figure 7, must change places with a'f'd', 
etc. If the centre-change is then to be maintained 
for yet another kinema, the set of cosmoids (or 
cosmic row, as we may henceforth term it) a'f'd' 
must be of a nature to permit of a centre- change 



134 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

taking place amongst . its members. After their 
migration from the centre-change, afd may per- 
sist in the cosmic lines of their migration, taking 
the former positions of a"f"d", or some of them 
or all may stray into new cosmic lines ; b may take 
the former position of b", while h changes with d, 
and / with a ; h and a may then change with one 
another or take the former positions of d" and /". 
In such various wise may these and succeeding 
migrants from the centre-change proceed through- 
out the cosmon or return early to the centre- change 
itself. And it would seem probable that, with the 
continuous increase of restrictions imposed upon the 
process of free-roving by the hand of time, all 
possible combinations of persistence in, and straying 
from, cosmic lines on the part of migrants from the 
increasingly frequent formations of centre- changes 
would eventually be realised, even if the contem- 
poraneous formation of centre-changes had not, as 
we shall see it must have, a marked influence upon 
the process. Most of the earlier centre- changes 
would doubtless perish after one kinema of existence 
because the newly imported set of cosmoids would 
find better alliances offered them than those con- 
stituting a complete change amongst themselves. 
And most of those centre- changes which were realised 
twice consecutively would then perish because of 
the unfitness of the third imported set of cosmoids. 
But on each occasion, when importunities from 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 135 

without and mutual aversions within had been 
satisfied by the disruption of the centre-change, the 
same conditions, somewhat modified but always 
more and more emphasised with the lapse of time, 
would still exist, leading to the proximate reforma- 
tion of a similar centre-change. Not, however, 
until its successive sets of migrants had persisted 
or strayed in such a way as to ensure the presence, 
in alternate kinemas at the border of the centre- 

2 U 

change, of -~— cosmoids that were not mutually 

unfriendly, would any centre-change attain to a 
considerable degree of stability; and then only 
provided this peculiar system of supply should 
safely perpetuate itself. If such a system be possi- 
ble it seems almost certain eventually to be realised. 
To discover if it is indeed possible being one object 
of this enquiry, let us to that end first consider some 
of the consequences of the persistence of migrants 
in the cosmic lines of their migration. In this 
consideration an obvious question, How are we 
to regard geometrically the relation of a centre- 
change to the outlying cosmon? will be ignored, 
since this question may be more advantageously 
approached after the completion of our review of 
the various conceivable systems of supply. 

2 U 

If all -=— migrants persist indefinitely in their 

original cosmic lines, they will ensure the ap- 



136 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

pearance at the border of the centre-change in 
alternate kinemas of a complete set or cosmic row 

2 U 

of -y— cosmoids which were mutually adjacent 

at the time when they were displaced inwards by 
the outgoing migrants. To suppose that such per- 
sistence of migrants could result in any prolonged 

maintenance of the centre-change is to suppose that 

2 jj 
all sets of -=r- mutually adjacent cosmoids would in 

successive kinemas become disposed to a centre- 
change amongst themselves; a supposition which, 
in view of the necessary conditions of free-roving, 
is obviously unworthy of consideration. 

If, in the second kinema after the centre- change, 
all the migrants stray from their original cosmic 
lines, — i.e. change places with one another, — 
the centre-change must be maintained by only 

2 U 

two sets of -jr cosmoids each, and could not long 

survive. 

It seems, then, that if an adequate system of 
supply is possible, it must be one under which some 
of the migrants persist whilst others stray. 

Let us consider the implications of the indefinite 
persistence in their original cosmic line of a single 
column of migrants, separated each from its succes- 
sor by a displaced cosmoid which likewise will ob- 
viously persist in the cosmic line as far as the border 
of the centre-change. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 137 

In addition to the above-mentioned displacement 
of cosmoids, the prime migrant — i.e. the persistent 
migrant which is the most distant from the centre- 
change of all the migrants in its own cosmic line — 
provides an inducement towards the centre-change 
amongst every set of cosmoids equidistant from the 
centre-change {i.e. amongst every cosmic row) 
through which it passes. The result of this passage 
of a prime migrant through any cosmic row is that 
a member of this row is started towards the centre- 
change in a cosmic line adjacent to that of the out- 
going migrant and incoming displaced cosmoid, 
and is, in the next kinema but one, followed by a 
second member of the same row, not in the same 
but in an adjacent cosmic line. In the fourth, 
sixth, eighth, etc., kinemas one member each of the 
same row is started towards the centre-change in 
adjacent cosmic lines; and all the cosmoids thus ori- 
entated will, if not systematically interfered with, 
persist in their cosmic lines at least until the change 
next but two to the centre-change is reached. None 
of the migrants in any given cosmic line have any 
effect whatever upon the cosmic rows through which 
they successively pass except the prime migrant. 

The reason of this orientation is seen in Figure 10 
which represents the passage of a prime migrant 
and other migrants of the same cosmic line through 
three cosmic rows. 

• represents a persistent migrant. 



138 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 



CDI3T3 




C2£^E 







Pig. 10 



© represents an orientate. 

^ 1 represent free rovers of like 
@0 J cosmic rows. 

Let the centre-change be in the 
direction of the bottom of the page. 

When, at (2), the prime migrant 
displaces a rover of the first row 
(OO) in the direction of the centre- 
change, it by so much relieves the 
tension of free-roving in that row. 
The adjacent rovers of the same 
row find that a familiar, outwearing 
associate has been taken off their 
hands and effectually disposed of. 
A tendency is thus created amongst 
them to follow after the removed 
and rejuvenated rover whose new 
associates have better to offer than 
anything in the old surroundings of 
the row. But the greatest induce- 
ment of all may perhaps be offered 
by the presence in the row of the mi- 
grant itself, which would probably be 
the least familiar cosmoid in the im- 
mediate neighbourhood of a row sit- 
uated at any considerable distance 
from the centre-change. The mi- 
grant, however, refuses all offers and 
passes on; whereupon either © or 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 139 

in this same kinema, or either of their successors in 
the following kinema, is free to respond to the induce- 
ment offered by the removal of their old associate. 
The only movement either can make by way of re- 
sponse is in a cosmic line adjacent to that in which 
the migrants are travelling, since there is no place 
for them in that cosmic line which is composed of 
migrants and displaced cosmoids. If both © and © 
should set out in cosmic lines towards the centre- 
change, one or other of them would soon find its 
progress checked. Only one rover of any row is 
displaced by a prime migrant. If more than one 
additional rover set forth at once for the renovating 
source, all but that one which is systematically for- 
warded to the centre-change in the manner presently 
to be described would fail, except by a rare chance, 
to reach the centre-change because of those very 
restrictions upon free-roving which have led to the 
formation of the cent re- change. If many rovers of 
the same row should set forth together for the 
centre-change in response to the inducement offered 
by a single migrant, and should actually reach the 
border of the centre-change, they would by virtue 
of their mutual antipathies constitute a menace to 
the centre-change which must be taken account of 
if the centre-change was disrupted and a new one 
formed in the same neighbourhood. 

Which of the two rovers or © should be suc- 
cessful in its quest and at the same time destroy for 



140 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the moment the inward tendency of the row, was 
determined at the time of the prime migrant's 
departure from the centre-change. Let us briefly 
consider the conditions of this departure. 

If it is not already obvious, it will soon appear 
that the persistence of all migrants for one kinema 
after their emergence from the centre-change is a 
necessary condition of the mobility of centre-changes ; 
and to this class of centre-changes we may confine 
our attention. When the prime migrant under 
consideration passed through the third outlying 
cosmic row, the cosmoid of that row which responded 
to the orientative influence would be that cosmoid 
which was offered the best inducement by a member 
of the second outlying row. The member of the 
second row offering such inducement would be a 
migrant that had strayed from its original cosmic 
line. Supposing the best inducement to have been 
offered on the right of the column of persistent 
migrants, the straying migrant which then replaced 
the orientate of the third outlying row would in 
the next kinema offer the cosmoid on the right of 
the persistent migrants' cosmic line in the fourth 
outlying row a better alliance than would be offered 
the cosmoid on the left. 

It is to be observed parenthetically that rights 
and lefts are here only a manner of speaking adopted 
in conformity to the exigencies of diagrammatic 
representation; for and © (Fig. 10) are them- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 141 

selves mutually adjacent, and all cosmic lines lead- 
ing to the centre-change .are mutually though dif- 
ferently adjacent. By the successive orientation 
of cosmoids on the right of a column of migrants is 
meant the successive orientation of cosmoids that 
are similarly adjacent to the migrants' cosmic line. 
The straying migrant is thus induced into a cosmic 
line adjacent to that of the prime migrant which it 
henceforth follows at a distance of two cosmoids, be- 
ing itself followed at intervals of two, four, six, etc., 
cosmoids by similar migrants all travelling in the 
same cosmic line. These induced migrants (® and 
©, Fig. 10) ensure the persistence of orientates in 
their cosmic line at least as far as the change next 
but two to the centre-change; but, more than this, 
the prime or leading induced migrant will inevi- 
tably orientate a cosmoid in every cosmic row 
through which it passes, for it offers precisely the 
same inducement as the original prime persistent 
migrant. This process of secondary orientation is 
represented at (4), (5), and (6) in Figure 10. And the 
prime induced migrant is followed at intervals of 
two, four, six, etc., cosmoids, in an adjacent cosmic 
line, by another set of induced migrants, of which 
the prime migrant, ®, is engaged in a similar process 
of orientation. Since all cosmic lines leading to the 
centre-change are mutually adjacent, and since each 
one of them contains, in the third outlying row, 
either a persistent or a straying migrant, it is clear 



142 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

that the secondary orientation might, and if not 
systematically interfered with would inevitably, 
spread continuously over as many cosmic lines as 
there were units of distance between the original 
prime migrant and the centre-change. 

That no migrant, whether originally persistent 
or induced, is ever in a position to orientate, except 
only the prime migrants, is seen in the diagram, 
which shows that the prime migrants alone dis- 
place members of cosmic rows. 

If any migrant persists in its original cosmic line 

2 U 
for as many as -y- kinemas, the wave of its orientates 

will spread over all cosmic lines that pass through 

the centre-change. If more than one original 

2 U 
migrant persists for -=r- kinemas, the result will be 

that, in the change next but two to the centre-change, 
all displaced rovers that have been drawn towards 
the centre-change will have eliminated an equal num- 
ber of otherwise possible orientates. The elimination 
of the orientate is illustrated in Figure 11, in which 
it is seen that the prime induced migrant © has not 
exerted the orientative influence upon the row QQ 
which it would have exerted but for the persistence 
of an original migrant in the adjacent cosmic line. 
Both © and ® are displaced rovers which deny to 
(D the power of orientation. 
The importance of the elimination of orientates 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 143 

as a factor in the efficiency of systems of supplying 

a centre-change will obviously be very great, if 

the most efficient systems arc found n c XI X X XT 

to be those in which the successive ® ^ 

straying of migrants leaves an ever 

weaker migratory representation in 

cosmic rows in proportion to their 

distance from the centre-change. 

Every orientate eliminated will then ( 2 < 

mean the subtraction of one from 

the number of cosmoids in its own 

cosmic row that must participate in 

every kinema of the centre-change. 




In place of the eliminated orientate (3)^ 
is always a displaced cosmoid from 
a row whose numerical representa- 
tion in the centre-change is weaker. 
Now it is clear that, if one or 
more original migrants persist in ( mi^fcX l 
their cosmic lines for as many as ' <3><g) 

2 U 

-jr~ kinemas, the sum of the orien- 
tates and displaced rovers taking 
part in any kinema in the change , s \ G) 
next but two to the centre-change x X a )rk b X X ) . 
will be the number of displaced "Eigr. U 

rovers that took part in the preceding change, plus 
the number of prime migrants, original and induced, 
persisting in that kinema in their cosmic lines, 



144 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

minus the number of otherwise possible orientates 
that have been eliminated by displaced rovers. 
But for every orientate that has been eliminated 
there is present in the change under consideration 
a displaced rover. Thus a simpler and equivalent 
statement is that there are in any kinema as many 
fresh cosmoids taking part in the change next but 
two to the centre-change as there are prime per- 
sistent migrants, original and induced, which are 
in that kinema in a position to orientate. This 
statement, however, is true only provided all the 
migrants in any cosmic line stray from that line at 
the same distance from the centre-change. That 
such would indeed be the case becomes patent upon 
further consideration. So long as a prime migrant 
persists in its original cosmic line, each of the follow- 
ing migrants of the same cosmic line finds that in 
each kinema no better alliance is available than 
that one which enables it to get as far away as 
possible from its most recent associate. This alli- 
ance is furnished by a cosmoid which was originally 
displaced from its row by the prime migrant, and 
with which each following migrant is consequently 
as unfamiliar as with any other adjacent cosmoid. 
The displaced cosmoid is, of course, likewise inclined 
to this alliance above all others. Thus, while the 
prime migrant persists in the cosmic line, all follow- 
ing migrants will so persist. When a prime migrant 
strays, it may conceivably, after its first departure 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



145 




3 



from the original cosmic line, keep to a new cosmic 
line. If so, the following migrants will stray at 
the same distance from the centre- ( " YY Y Y YV 
change and in the same new cosmic * • 

line. The process is represented in 
Figure 12. If the migrant be sup- 
posed to stray after reaching the 
row OO, the only departure it can 
make from its original cosmic line (.2) 
is into the row itself. (Cf. Fig. 7.) 
It may then change with © (Fig. 12). 
To persist in its new cosmic line 
means to change next with ©, this 
cosmic line being equivalent to off r ^ 
in Figure 7. At (4), in Figure 12, 
the displaced cosmoid for the follow- 
ing migrant to change with is ©, 
which will pursue that cosmic line 
in which it is offered the best alli- 
ance. ©, on the other hand, has (4) 
no preponderating inclination to 
change with the following migrant 
because of its new adjacency to the 
prime migrant. ©, then, takes the 
position shown at (5). It will be (5) Hq2J§) 
seen that with the migrants' change 
of cosmic lines systematic orienta- ■ Elgm 12 

tion towards the centre-change ceases. The prime 
migrant's change with © has obviously no orienta- 





146 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

tive consequence. Its subsequent departure from 
the row (33 leaves an orientative impulse in that 
row. But, at (5), © may not satisfy this impulse 
because © would repel its advances. It must there- 
fore be another cosmoid, as ©, which moves into 
the row OO, where it finds no induced migrant to 
attract it further towards the centre-change. At 
(4) the induced migrant © may not persist in its 
original cosmic line. Not only does it not, as 
hitherto, find an orientate desiring its alliance, but 
the rover © may not change with it because of the 
requirements of 0, which may not change with the 
prime migrant and will not change with ©, which is 
in the opposite direction from the renovating in- 
fluence. © therefore changes with ©; and © enters 
a new cosmic line, its last orientative influence 
having been exerted in the row next to OO in the 
direction of the centre-change. 

In those cases in which the original prime migrant, 
in straying from its original cosmic line, does not 
keep to a new cosmic line — and such would doubt- 
less in time come to be the universal procedure — 
the straying of following migrants and the cessa- 
tion of systematic orientation are an obvious neces- 
sity which requires no separate illustration. 

From these considerations we derive the follow- 
ing general statement : Any system of supply that 
might maintain a centre-change for any period 
would be self-perpetuating during this period. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 147 

It is readily to be seen that many a centre-change 
forming under those conditions which were making 
its formation inevitable would be far from deficient 
in means of support, if its agents were only required 
to supply cosmoids from distant regions of the cos- 
mon ; for the persistence in cosmic lines of but a few 
migrants from the centre-change — a persistence 
such as would doubtless occur in all possible degrees 
of numerical importance — would be the means of 
inducing into cosmic lines an indefinite number 

2 U 

(up to — — per two kinemas) of straying migrants. 

This deadwood of discarded cosmoids would thus 
be effectually removed, and an indefinite number of 
fresh cosmoids would in alternate kinemas be de- 
posited at the border of the centre-change ready for 
use. But since the cosmon consists of a succession 

of cosmic rows, each row containing -=r- cosmoids, 

it is obvious that supplies brought from distant 
regions of the cosmon will be inadequate to the 
maintenance of a centre-change for as long a period 
as is possible within the portion of the cosmon visited 
by its migrants unless each set of cosmoids arriving 
simultaneously at the border of the centre-change 
come from the most different possible regions of the 
cosmon, and from the most dissimilarly adjacent 
portions of necessarily similar regions of the cosmon. 
An instance of the menace to the integrity of centre- 



148 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

changes contained in the orientation of similarly ad- 
jacent portions of cosmic rows would be as follows : 

If, from the row next but one to any centre- 
change, as many as ^-yr migrants persisted in their 

original cosmic lines for as many as sixteen kinemas, 
the consequence of such persistence would be that 
the company of orientates and displaced cosmoids 
provided for the renewal of this centre-change 
would be divisible into groups of mutually unfriendly 
cosmoids which had been displaced or orientated 
at similar positions in the same and in adjacent rows. 
And the lapse of time would cause this mutual 
unfriendliness to become rapidly more marked. 

It is clear, then, that if the centre-change is to be 
maintained for the longest period compatible with 
the ultimate resources of that portion of the cosmon 
which comes under its influence, migrants must per- 
sist in such numbers, for such periods, and in such 
lines, as will ensure the participation in the change 
next but two to the centre-change of exactly as 
many orientates from dissimilarly adjacent portions 
of the cosmon as there are straying migrants from 
the second outlying row requiring to be induced 
away in cosmic lines. These orientates together 
with the consequently dissimilarly displaced cos- 
moids taking part in the same change would provide 
the centre- change with the exact amount of fresh 
cosmoids that it required, none of which would nee- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



149 



essarily be mutually unfriendly, and all of which 
might be mutually welcome if the persistence of 
migrants was a process as symmetrical as in many 
of the vast number of cases of centre-change for- 
mation it must chance to be. 

Let us examine some conceivable systems of 
supply, adequate or inadequate to the task of 
maintaining a centre-change for any period likely 
to ensure its having a considerable effect upon the 
process of free-roving. 

2 U 
Supposing that, of the -=— migrants issuing in 

each second kinema from a centre-change, but a sin- 
gle one persisted thenceforth in its original cosmic 
line (AB, Fig. 13), and that this mi- b 
grant and its following migrants so 

persisted for -=r- kinemas and then 

strayed; there would result from 
this persistence, and from the conse- 
quent induction of straying migrants 
into cosmic lines to distances of 
2U 2J7 

D ' D 

change, a deposit in alternate kinemas at the border 
of the centre-change of cosmoids exactly sufficient in 
number to remove the discarded straying migrants 
and to renew the centre-change. But there are 
obvious disadvantages in this system of supply. 



Big. A3 

2, etc., cosmoids from the centre- 



150 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

In the first place, it is hardly supposable that the 
centre-change should not have been disrupted by 
the congestion of straying migrants long before the 
system of relief had been established. But even 
if the centre-change had managed somehow to 
supply itself in the meantime, the system would still 
be defective. Under its operation displaced and 
orientated cosmoids would be taken from the same 
portions of cosmic rows while the other portions 
of these rows remained unorganized. Its life would 
then be short as compared with that of centre- 
changes supplied under other conceivable systems. 
It is clear that the system possessing the highest 
efficiency would be one under which the most distant 
possible regions of the cosmon were visited, and 
under which all migrants persisting as far as any 
given cosmic row arrived in the most dissimilarly 
adjacent portions of that row. And this system 
is readily to be discovered upon the examination of 
but two other systems of supply. Of these two the 
advantages and disadvantages are obvious enough; 
and from them it will appear that no other system 
need be considered. 

A. In the third kinema after the centre-change, 
one-half of the migrants persist in the original 
cosmic lines; and in each succeeding kinema the 
number of persistent migrants is reduced by one-half. 

B. The second kinema after that of the centre- 
change being Kinema No. 1, as many migrants per- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



151 



tained times in 



sist in their original cosmic 
lines in each succeeding ki- 
nema as the square of the 
number of the kinema is con- 
2U 
D ' 

The persistence of migrants 
under these two systems is 
represented collaterally in 
Figure 14, Kinema n being 
that kinema beyond which 
no migrant persists in its 
original cosmic line. 1 

In each second kinema, 

under A, — orientates would 

take part in the change next 
but two to the centre-change, 
and would be just sufficient 

to induce the yr straying mi- 
grants into cosmic lines and 
remove them from the neigh- 
bourhood of the centre- 
change. And at the same 

time — displaced cosmoids 

would arrive from various 
regions; thus the centre- 

1 For kinema may be substituted 
cosmoid or unit of distance. 



K 


A 


B 


u 


l 


l 








8 


U 

64 D 


U 

32 D 


7 


u 

32 D 


_2_U_ 
49 D 


6 
t 


u 

16 D 


U 
18 D 


5 


U 
sD 


25 D 


4 


U 

4D 


u 

8D 


3 


U 

2D 


2U 
9D 


2 


U 
D 


u 

2D 


1 


2U 

D 


2U 

D 



Tig. 14. 



152 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

change would receive material sufficient in amount 
for its support. It is obvious, however, that, un- 
der A, a much smaller portion of the cosmon would 
be affected than under B. Hence the life of centre- 
changes supplied under it must be much shorter; 
and when we come to consider the relations be- 
tween centre-changes, we shall see that the formation 
of centre-changes under A would not be favoured 
by the contemporaneous existence of centre- changes 
supplied under the better system. A further defect 
in A is that under this system no single migrant 
could persist in its original cosmic line for as many 

2 U 

as — - kinemas. In each kinema the ratio of stray- 
ing to persistent migrants is constant and equals 1. 
Therefore Kinema n could not be identical with 

2 77 2 U 

Kinema -— , no matter what was the value of — — . 

2 U 
And if — - was greater, these two kinemas would be 

2 U 

no nearer to one another than if — — was smaller. 

2U 
Since, then, no migrant could persist for -jr kinemas, 

nor any two migrants for — kinemas, nor any eight 

U . 

for j-/5> that elimination of orientates described 

above (page 142 et seq.) could not be accomplished to 
its fullest extent. Under any conceivable variety of 
A, it would doubtless occur in comparatively small 
measure, and the participants in the centre-change 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 153 

would always, in consequence, be dangerously well 

acquainted. Nor would any modification of A 

ensure the persistence of a migrant for as many as 

2 U 

— kinemas without at the same time increasing 

the orientation in such a way as to produce an 
equivalent result. 

Systems such as A may perhaps be regarded as 
stepping-stones to B which possesses both the qualifi- 
cations that were lacking in A. The better we com- 
prehend the implications of the diagram, the more 
deeply are we impressed with the enormous difference 
in efficiency between these two systems. If the 

2 U 
quantity — - be sufficiently great or sufficiently small, 

the series of diminishing ratios of the straying mi- 
grants, under B, will eventually coincide with the 
series of index numbers of the kinemas: Kinema n 

2U 

will be identical with Kinema -77- ; i-e. - , n rTN9 , will 

D ' (2 uy 

equal 1. Under the most symmetrical and therefore 
longest-lived form of B, all migrants would arrive 
in the most dissimilarly adjacent portions of cosmic 
rows, and all orientates from rows near the centre- 
change would be eliminated. 

Some such series of ratios as under B is what we 
should expect to find of use in describing any one- 



154 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

dimensional process. That the centre-change must 
inevitably be evolved in the course of our symbolical 
cosmic life, and that, once evolved and maintained, 
it would undoubtedly occasion the postponement for 
a considerable period of the otherwise inevitable 
dead-lock in free-roving, are, under the circum- 
stances, interesting considerations. Under any other 
circumstances their significance would be doubtful. 
If the centre-change had shown that it might be 
indefinitely maintained in accordance with a strictly 
mathematical process of regeneration, it would prob- 
ably be useless to proceed further with any enquiry 
into its implications, for we should then believe it 
to have little or no value as an intermediate symbol 
of ultimate processes. In the universe in which we 
live two things may safely be said of numbers. 
One is, that they are at least an approximate measure 
of phenomena or appearances within certain limits ; 
the other is, that beyond these limits they cease to 
be even an approximate measure. They carry in 
themselves both the assertion of their restricted, 
approximate validity, and the admission of their 
ultimate and absolute incompetence ; and in the two 
systems of supplying a centre-change that we have 
been considering they furnish us with both intima- 
tions. If, they say, we are of any value whatever, 
do not expect that any process of ultimate dimen- 
sions or of cosmical implications will be described by 
a series to which we can place the final term. Your 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 155 

system A lies within our jurisdiction. Under it, 

2 U 

we can assure you, n could never equal — - . But 

when you approach the ultimate possibilities of a 
universe in which nothing is fixed, you can hardly 
expect us, the unchanging creatures of your own 
brain, to provide you with an adequate formula. 
Of your process B only that portion lies within our 
jurisdiction which has been incorporated within your 
own, our parents', very limited experience. Outside 
these limits we guarantee nothing save our own 
incompetence. Nevertheless, you say that the uni- 
verse of continuous change, which is the only 
conceivable universe, requires that a quantity suffi- 
ciently great or sufficiently small, if divided by its 
square, shall produce the quotient 1. Well, this 
may be guessed from our behaviour in the series 
in question. 

Thus the process by which all stable centre-changes 
would be maintained is precisely that kind of process 
in which it is possible to place belief, — a process, to 
wit, which in its entirety is not measurable by num- 
bers, but which within certain limits is approximately 
so measurable. 

At this point it is perhaps desirable that, risking 
repetition, we define somewhat more fully than 
hitherto our position in this enquiry into the probable 
behaviour of the apparent cosmoids. 



156 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

It is unnecessary to rehearse our reasons for postu- 
lating the one-dimension universe, since they are 
well known and readily comprehensible. Having 
postulated this universe, of which the essential prin- 
ciple is continuous change and in which all possible 
differences must be realised in all time, it became 
an obvious necessity to represent its change in the 
sum by the units of an imaginary imperishable sub- 
stance in continuous motion. Our cosmoid was a 
symbol, or potentially an " appearance," such as 
alone was capable of treatment in actual language. 
This symbol, to have any correspondence with its 
prototype, must be invested with the attribute of an 
ability to profit by experience, — an attribute which, 
though doubtless illusory when considered as a 
possession of the human race itself, does neverthe- 
less seem to be possessed by all animate things, and 
which, as a seeming attribute, is not to be excluded 
from the inanimate world. Our so-called free-roving 
and the growing restrictions imposed upon it, the 
consequent formation of the centre-change and its 
dissolution under the most various circumstances, 
leading eventually to the persistence of mobile centre- 
changes, the process of displacement and orienta- 
tion of restricted free rovers, permitting the survival 
of those centre-changes alone which are supplied 
under a system not wholly referable to the principles 
of numbers, — all these episodes in the career of 
the apparent cosmoids seem naturally derivable 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 157 

from that essential attribute with which, if they are 
suitable symbols, they must be invested. Incom- 
plete as may be our diagrammatic representations 
of cosmical processes, they deal nevertheless with 
legitimate subjects of enquiry and may lead to in- 
teresting conclusions. 

Our cosmoids and the centre-changes evolved in 
the course of their free-roving have not as yet shown 
a definite correspondence with any observed appear- 
ances; and if they fail to show a reasonable proba- 
bility of such correspondence, our consideration 
of them will have been lacking in interest. But 
since the centre-change has indeed indicated a 
possibility of such correspondence, let us proceed 
to enquire into the probable implications of its 
motions. 

It will be seen that a centre-change would be 
capable of motion in a cosmic line or of revolution 
about its own centre. In the former case a centre- 
change would be executed in the first outlying row 
by the newly imported set of cosmoids, and the old 
centre-change would become the first outlying row of 
cosmoids destined to persist and stray as migrants. 
This symbolical necessity of regarding a centre- 
change as a limit in front of which lies the whole 
cosmon will presently be considered. 

However unlikely it may later appear that any 
but the earliest centre-changes would ever be suffered 
to move in a cosmic line at a uniform velocity, it 



158 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

seems highly probable that if a centre-change did so 
move, its accompanying system or field of organised 
cosmon would not be disturbed within itself but, 
since all cosmic lines leading to the centre-change 
are mutually adjacent, would merely be shifted from 
one portion of the cosmon to another, in accordance 
with the motion of the centre-change itself. But 
during periods of acceleration or retardation or of 
revolution about its centre, all the regenerating 
cosmoids would, on reaching the centre- change, find 
themselves in different situations from those of 
their immediate predecessors, and all the cosmic 
lines of displacement and orientation would in 
consequence suffer a change. The centre-change 
would then be disrupted and at once reformed from 
the material immediately at hand, having meanwhile 
exercised a new influence in all portions of the cosmon 
lying within its field. Our symbolical centre-change 
would thus possess something akin to the property 
of matter called inertia. 

The question now arises, What could give direction, 
or velocity, or any distinguishing feature to the 
motion of a centre-change? If there was but one 
centre-change in the universe; or if, of a number 
of contemporaneous centre-changes, no two lay each 
within the other's field, it would seem that there 
could be nothing to determine this motion. But 
centre-changes lying within one another's fields would 
be drawn towards one another by the attractive 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 159 

power of their migrants. For the field of one centre- 
change is different, at least in its relation to the 
centre-change, from that of every other; and its 
supplies are drawn from dissimilarly adjacent por- 
tions of any region of the cosmon shared by these 
fields. 

The passage of persistent migrants from one 
centre-change through another centre-change should 
here be considered in its general aspect. 

The system of supply B being uniform and the 
most symmetrical possible, certain of the migrants 
of the one centre-change would be identical first 
with certain of the displaced cosmoids and afterwards 
with certain of the migrants of the other; and the 
strength of the mutual attraction of the two centre- 
changes would vary inversely with the square of the 
distance between them. 

It is important to observe that two centre-changes 

2 U 
separated by a distance of not more than — - 

cosmoids could not fail to attract one another 

through the agency of their migrants; for any 

cosmoid, as a, of either centre-change is in a cosmic 

line with every cosmoid of the other centre-change ; 

and of all these cosmic lines containing a, at least 

one must be identical with a cosmic line of migration. 

This means that the migrant from any centre-change 

2 U 
which keeps to its cosmic line for — - kinemas passes 



160 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

through every other centre-change that is distant no 

2 U 
more than — - cosmoids. Hence no two centre- 
changes could be equidistant from a third. 

Any migrant from any centre-change, as a, would 
possess a twofold attraction for another centre- 
change, as c, if it had, in the interval of its journey 
between the two, passed through and become a 
migrant of a third centre-change, as b, since it would 
possess the inducement inherent in its participation 
in the momentary results of two complete systems 
of cosmical exploration instead of only one. If c 
responded appropriately, it would find the promise 
of a's migrant justified in the issue. If c failed to 
respond appropriately, whilst a fourth centre-change, 
as d, did so respond, d would have scored a point in 
longevity over c. But a's migrant would doubtless 
be well known to some, if not all, of the cosmoids of 
both c and d. Moreover, this migrant must have 
passed through b, if b was nearer to a than was c; 
and since no two centre-changes may be equidistant 
from a third nor, therefore, bear in any way the same 
relation to a third, its passage through b must have 
been different in character from its passage through a. 
And inasmuch as it is a portion of, not a straight, but 
a cosmic line, it must bear evidence to c of the peculiar 
character of its passage through b. Hence both c 
and d would doubtless respond appropriately to the 
twofold inducement; and if d was at a greater 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 161 

distance from a than was c, the inducement offered 
to d by this single migrant would be threefold. 

It is obvious that no centre-change could over- 
take and pass another centre-change on its way to a 
third, since there could be no inducement for it to do 
so ; moreover, there is room in the cosmon for but 
one centre-change at any given distance from an- 
other centre-change. 

We have already proceeded far enough with our 
consideration of the centre-changes to become fully 
aware that no geometrically satisfactory image of 
their motions may be formed. Though they are 
themselves but the partially geometrical symbols 
of a fleeting reality, the conditions of their existence 
are so essentially ungeometrical in character, so 
completely lacking in possibilities of a direct relation 
to the human sense of sight or of touch, that in any 
"picture" that we may form of their relations with 
one another certain features must be absent which 
are invariably present in all the pictures contained 
in our sense experience. Nevertheless, it seems by 
no means impossible that further statements should 
be made about them, as to which statements we 
seeing and feeling humans might agree that certain of 
them were more likely to be true than others. If 
so, it is by no means impossible that a sufficient 
number of such statements should lead to an interest- 
ing guess at the nature of the correspondence, if any 



162 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 



correspondence exist, between the resultants of the 
motions of centre-changes and the motions observed 
in our actual life. Let us by all means enquire if any 
such guess is feasible. But we may never forget 
that, in digging into this hypothetical intermediate 
stratum between superficial appearances and deepest 
reality, such implements as sight-imagination and 
touch-imagination will be only occasionally, and then 
partially, of use. 



Each centre-change — which, as a relation, we 

found to be equivalent to a geometrical point — 

is, when symbolically regarded, the centre of its 

universe. In front of it, or outside of it, extends 

2 U 
that succession of cosmic rows, containing each — - 

cosmoids, which constitute the cosmon ; and there is 
nothing inside of it or behind it. Hence no centre- 
change could be adjacent to more than one other 

centre-change. 

But the cosmon, in its par- 
tially or potentially geomet- 
rical aspect, may not be re- 
garded exclusively from the 
point of view of any single 
centre-change. It must in- 
Eig. 15 stead be regarded from the 

point of view of all existent centre-changes. 
If, then, there were at any time three centre- 





l 


2 


3 


4 


"5 


6 


(1) 


a 


b 






c 








(2) 


b 


a 




c 










(3) 


c 






b 


a 





THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



1G3 



changes in the cosmon, such an arrangement of them 
as illustrated in Figure 15 would be possible. At 
(1) are represented six cosmic rows from the point 
of view of one of these centre-changes, a; at (2), 
the same six rows from the point of view of b ; at 
(3), from the point of view of c. From no point 
of view is any one of these centre-changes adjacent 





l 


2 


3 


4 


5 


6 


7 


8 


9 


10 


11 


(1) 


a 






b 








c 






d 






(2) 


b 






a 


c 






d 












(3) 


e 






d 


b 






a 












(4) 


d 






c 








b 






a 



Fig. 16 

to more than one of the others, nor are any two of 
them equidistant from the third. 

Figure 16 represents a possible arrangement of 
four centre-changes. 

But four centre-changes could not be formed 
in the relative positions shown in Figure 17, in 
which it is seen that b and d are equidistant from c. 
If c did not exist, a, b, and d might occupy the 
positions indicated without mutual interference. 



164 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 



But no centre-change could then be formed in the 
row 8 (from a's point of view). 

It is seen, then, that every centre-change occupies 
as many different positions in the cosmon as there 
are other centre-changes in the cosmon. But any 



1 


2 


3 


4 


5 


6 


7 


8 


9 


10 


11 


a 








b 






c 






d 



Kg. 17 

given centre-change could occupy at any given 
moment but one position in respect of any other 
centre-change. If, for example, the relations of b, c, 
and d to a are as at (1) in Figure 16, these centre- 
changes could not at the same time occupy other 
positions in respect of a, such as might diagrammati- 
cally be derived from (2) in Figure 16 (as in Fig. 18). 
Such a folding and refolding of the cosmon, if 
regarded from the point of view of reality, would 
imply the identity of all cosmic rows, and so would 
demonstrate the unity of the cosmon. But a centre- 
change, in so far as it embodies a geometrical concept, 



1 


2 


3 


4 


5 


6 


7 


8 


9 


10 


11 


a 


c 




b 


d 















Fig. 18 

may not be identified with an ungeometrical row 
of free rovers nor with another centre-change, any 
more than I may, as a human being, be identified 
with my brother. Centre-changes are not realities 
but appearances; they are those things which the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 165 

real cosmon would have formed if it had endured 
instead of continuously dying in giving birth to 
new and different cosmon. Therefore centre-changes 
must, like human beings or atoms, be regarded 
numerically. 

When the restrictions upon the process of free- 
roving had resulted in the formation of billions of 
centre-changes, it is clear, then, that these centre- 
changes must have been formed at vast distances 
from one another from any given point of view. 

Upon further consideration of 

first, the diagrams (Figs. 15, 16, and 17) and, 

second, the attraction of one centre-change for 
another, — a force varying inversely with the square 
of the distance in cosmic lines, — we shall at once 
see that the centre-changes must eventually tend to 
gather together into stable groups, the spacing of 
whose members in cosmic rows would be numerically 
symmetrical. If the spaces between the members 
were always sufficiently great, both an indefinite 
freedom of motion and an indefinite degree of crowd- 
ing together would be possible to the groups as such. 
Since both these privileges would imply the advan- 
tage to any group of benefiting more fully from the 
fields of other groups, we may conclude that those 
groups would eventually persist in which the spaces 
between members were very great and numerically 
symmetrical. 

If we would discover other determinants of the 



166 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

persistence of stable groups, we must enquire into the 
implications of their formation. To this end, let 
us ask, What may be understood by a stable group ? 
A stable group must clearly be a league of centre- 
changes separated from one another by vast dis- 
tances in cosmic lines, and preserving, if not inter- 
fered with from without, the same distances from 
one another. This means that at the moment when 
the group was finally formed, all the mutually 
attracted centre-changes ceased to move in cosmic 
lines. For the reason considered in connexion with 
the diagrams, further approach in cosmic lines would 
have been dangerous, whilst withdrawal in cosmic 
lines would have meant the abandonment of the 
fullest possible benefit from one another's fields. 
At this point an obvious advantage lies before the 
centre-changes in that motion which we have 
termed revolution about their centres, inasmuch as, 
when inaugurated, it means that the centre-changes 
will be benefiting more variously from one another's 
fields than before. In this revolution must lie an 
important safeguard against overcrowding of centre- 
changes, for it would minimise the danger of too 
nearly identifying the field of one centre-change 
with that of another. The average velocity of 
revolution or rotation — by whichever name we 
may choose to call this motion of which no pictorial 
image may be formed — of members of a group must, 
then, be highest in groups in which the members 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 167 

are nearest together. We shall later find reason to 
believe that in time all stable groups would come 
to have the same size, — i.e. the same length in 
cosmic lines ; we may therefore conveniently borrow 
the term "mass" to indicate their numerical 
strength in centre-changes. It is, then, obvious 
that the members of a group of lesser mass would be 
farther apart than those of a group of greater mass. 
Hence they would gain the greatest advantage from 
one another's fields — i.e. the same advantage that 
was gained in the heavier group — if their average 
rotary velocity was not the same as that in the 
heavier group, but either lower or higher in pro- 
portion to the difference in mass. Since it may be 
lower, it seems likely even at this stage of our 
enquiry that lower it would be rather than higher ; 
and this probability will be enforced by subsequent 
considerations. If by M we represent mass, and by 
V the average rotary velocity of members, the 

y 

quotient of — would probably be the same in all 

stable groups. 

It is important to observe that those groups would 
survive the longest in which the character and 
velocity of revolution of each of their members 
were suited with the greatest exactness to the 
average of distance between it and the other 
members of the same group. By the character 
of the revolution is meant the particular succession 



168 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

of disruptions and reformations of lines of supply. 
Any member of a group is connected with a near 
neighbour by all those lines of supply by which it is 
connected with a more distant neighbour, and by 
many other lines as well. Should any members 
ignore the obvious advantage to be gained by a 
precise observance of the rules suggested by the 
migrants arriving along these various and manifold 
lines, they would be forfeiting one of the most con- 
spicuous benefits of their alliance, and the conse- 
quences of such negligence would rapidly accumulate 
with the lapse of time. As a result of those various 
and intimate relations between groups which we are 
about to consider, any groups whose members were 
not rotating in such manners and at such velocities 

that each one of them presented successively its — — 

different aspects to the cosmic row of average dis- 
tance within its group, would repeatedly run the 
risk of destruction. Their complete extermination 
would be favoured by the contemporaneous ex- 
istence of more efficiently organised groups, the 
variety of whose mutual relations would thereby be 
enhanced. Eventually all groups of conspicuously 
inferior organisation would doubtless cease to be 
formed. 

The relative degrees of mobility eventually to be 
established among groups of different mass may be 
ascertained through a consideration of the conse- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 169 

quences of their response to the attraction of mi- 
grants. 

A single migrant, as we have already seen, may 
not successfully orientate towards its centre-change 
more than one cosmoid of any given row of free 
rovers; for, if more than one cosmoid of each row 
sets out for the centre-change, a congestion of un- 
friendly cosmoids will eventually be produced suf- 
ficient to disrupt the centre-change and to prevent 
the formation of another centre-change in the same 
neighbourhood. The case of the mutual attraction 
of centre-changes themselves must inevitably be 

2 U 

similar. This is to say, if fewer than — migrants, 

or their equivalent in migrants possessing a mani- 
fold attraction, might attract one centre-change a 
distance of one cosmoid or cosmic row towards 
another centre-change, the life of centre-changes 
or of groups of them would be impossible in the 
cosmon. For it is obvious that, if centre-changes 
rushed impetuously to any region of the cosmon 
where the advantage to be gained was not com- 
mensurate with the rapidity of their approach, 
an otherwise moderate and beneficial degree of 
crowding together would become insupportable. 
In time it must come to be an attractive force equal 

2 U 

to —j—- that would be required to induce any centre- 
change to make its first forward move; and a force 



170 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

equal to — - — would be required to induce a group 

of M 1000 to make its first forward move. 

A lighter group would thus have greater freedom 
of motion through the cosmon than a heavier: an 
advantage which would react beneficially upon all 
heavier groups with which it had relations. Heavier 
groups would in consequence favour the persistence 
of at least certain classes of lighter groups, and 
lighter groups would likewise favour the persistence 
of certain heavier groups, since a heavier group 
would always exploit the immediate neighbourhood 
more thoroughly than a lighter, whilst a lighter 
would always carry with it the refreshing influence 
of its travels. 

To gain some general idea of the different classes 
of groups that would favour one another's con- 
temporaneous existence, we should first recognise 
the advantage inherent in a process which would 
seem to be an inevitable consequence of the forma- 
tion of groups and which we may term the associa- 
tion of groups. 

Literal contact between the members of two 
groups would of course never occur; or, if it did 
occur in early kinemas, would result in the dis- 
ruption of both groups, — an event which would 
possess no potential geometrical significance save 
in the example. In time the members of the most 
nearly contiguous groups would doubtless be sepa- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 171 

rated by distances as great as those existing 
within the groups themselves. Now, two groups 
that were suffered to remain thus contiguous for 
a sufficient period would gain a very thorough 
experience of one another's organisation; which 
experience, as it approached perfection, must result 
in one of three things: (1) separation, (2) dis- 
bandment of one or both of the groups, or (3) an 
exchange of one or more of their component mem- 
bers, the two groups then sharing a portion of the 
cosmon, and the association thus formed possessing 
a new advantage of longevity over the former 
league that was based merely upon propinquity. 
It is to be observed that any association involving 
one member of each group must entail an advantage 
of differentiation in the relation superior to that 
which would be gained by the retirement of one 
group to a distance from its former position equal 
to the distance moved in the act of association. It 
would, moreover, be a new kind of advantage which 
involved no repetition of a relation already experi- 
enced in the course of that mutual approach which 
had led to the relation of contiguity. 

In some conceivable cases such an association 
would doubtless be impossible by reason of the re- 
lation borne by the internal organisation — i.e. 
the spacing and rotary velocities of members — 
of one of the groups to that of the other. In such 
cases, all other things being equal, the group whose 



172 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

unassociableness with reference to the sum of other 
existing groups was the most marked would de- 
cline in stability, and in time its kind would cease 
to be formed. Contemporaneous with the decline 
in stability of this variety of gsoup would be an 
increased advantage of mutual association to sur- 
viving groups resulting from this riddance of a 
stumbling-block in their path. 

In other conceivable cases the association would 
be so readily and completely feasible that the two 
groups might occupy all but the same portion of 
the cosmon. At need one of the groups might then 
emerge on the other side — from its own point of 
view — of the other group. The lighter group 
could then hardly be spoken of as having lost all 
its old members and gained new ones, since centre- 
changes are in themselves geometrically alike and 
are, under all circumstances, continuously renewed 
from without. The net result of these two succes- 
sive acts of association and dissociation would be 
that two groups already presumably suited to 
prevalent cosmic processes were preserved, each 
with increased advantages. 

In any association of two groups the average 
rotary velocity of the members of each would in- 
crease in direct ratio with the square of the close- 
ness of the association in cosmic lines; and the 
character of the revolution of each member would 
still be primarily with regard to its own group, but 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 173 

might be indefinitely modified by the exigencies of 
the association. In some, perhaps all, associations 
the members of both groups would doubtless move 
apart and close up again in rhythmical vibrations 
similar to those which we shall presently consider 
in another connexion. 

Close associations would probably be less common 
than those in which the groups shared but a small 
portion of the cosmon. Disruption of a close as- 
sociation due to some outside influence might act 
with explosive force upon neighbouring groups 
and centre-changes. 

It is clear, then, that the advantage inherent in 
association would narrowly restrict the admissible 
number of contemporaneous varieties of groups. 
Different sets of mutually associable groups would 
doubtless belong to different epochs, for each set 
must in time exhaust its own possibilities. Re- 
curring to our diagrams (Figs. 15, 16, and 17) 
and constructing in imagination groups of different 
mass, beginning with 1000, we must recognise that 
this lightest group (M 1000) could not associate with 
all varieties of groups from M 1001, 1002, 1003, etc., 
up to M 100,000, but would probably be able to 
associate with only a very few of such varieties 
within these limits as might sufficiently generally 
associate with one another. The variety having 
M 1001 might find a different set more congenial. 

No variety of group would ever possess a normal 



174 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

or ideal degree of stability; for it would no sooner 
reach the highest degree of relative stability than 
it would begin to decline in the scale. It is further- 
more probable that certain individual groups of 
a variety that was rising in the scale of relative 
stabilities would, under certain circumstances, be 
forced to disband. 

Though the advantage inherent in association 
would further favour a certain diversity in the mass 
of groups, it could hardly, on the other hand, favour 
diversity in size, — i.e. in the length of groups 
in cosmic lines, — for the advantage of the associa- 
tion of three or more groups would probably be 
greater relatively to the total mass involved, if all 
were of the same size, than if one of them was con- 
siderably larger or smaller than the others. More- 
over, a light group that was larger than other groups 
of its time would doubtless be unable to keep its 
members in their places. A large and heavy group, 
on the other hand, must be difficult for other groups 
to associate with. It would, then, seem probable 
that in any given age all groups, whatever their 
mass, would have nearly, if not quite, the same size, 
and that any general variation in size from age to 
age would be an extremely slow process. Subse- 
quent considerations will greatly emphasise this 
probability. 

We may here pause to observe that, if our stable 
groups were in other respects equivalent to the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 175 

atoms of matter, we should say that all varieties 
of them were to some extent radio-active; their 
associations we should call molecules; and at some 
epoch of the cosmic life, measurable perhaps by 
thousands of successive nebulae, it would seem not 
improbable that the existent varieties should be 
similar in number and in character to the so-called 
elements of our experimental knowledge. 

In the earliest formations of groups (it will be 
well to keep Fig. 16 before us) if the spaces be- 
tween members were sufficiently great, this spacing 
might be widely different in two groups of the same 
mass. For example, in a certain group of M 1000, 
a certain member might conceivably remain in a 
position distant relatively a million cosmic rows 
from the position occupied by the corresponding 
member of a neighbouring or distant group of like 
mass. Beyond a certain point, however, such 
differences could not exist. And if D (the length 
of a cosmic diameter) was sufficiently great, all 
groups of like mass, whether formed in the same 
neighbourhood or at great distances from one 
another, would be subject to the same limitations 
of spacing. On the other hand, certain other 
early groups might conceivably be formed in which 
the members were so crowded that each of them 
would occupy the only cosmic row compatible with 
the continued existence of the group. But when 
we contemplate the necessity of either vibration or 



176 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

disruption to follow upon collisions of those groups 
which, though mutually attractive, were wholly 
or partially incapable of association with one an- 
other, and when we recognise the important ulti- 
mate benefit inherent in such vibration of groups, 
we shall see that only those groups might persist 
whose members were capable of yielding suitably 
before the menacing influence, and that in time all 
groups would come to be formed in such a way that 
each member of a group that was not vibrating would 
occupy the middle point of its admissible path of 
vibration. All groups of like mass and like size 
would then have the same spacing of members. 

From these considerations it becomes clear that 
association cannot contain the whole story of the 
motives of groups; that, though a certain degree 
of mutual associableness would be desirable at 
any epoch, a certain degree of mutual unassociable- 
ness would likewise, and quite as obviously, be 
desirable. 

In order to appreciate the significance of the 
vibration of stable groups and of the consequent 
transmission of appropriate impulses along the lines 
of supply of these groups, we should first try to gain 
some idea of the attractive force resulting in those 
quasi-collisions which must in the first instance set 
up these vibrations. 

It is obvious that the attraction of one stable 
group for another must be very different in its 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 177 

operation from the attraction of one unattached 
centre-change for another. 

Two centre-changes lying within one another's 
fields and in the field of no other centre-change, 
and not revolving about their centres, would ap- 
proach one another in cosmic lines with the same 
velocity, and this velocity would increase in inverse 
ratio to the square of the distance between them. 

If a heavier group, or association of groups, or 
league of associations, lay within the field of a lighter 
group, association, or league, the velocity of each 
body in approaching the other would, as in the case 
of the unattached centre-changes, increase in in- 
verse ratio to the square of the distance between 
them. 

And the average velocity of the two bodies would 
at any time be as the total mass involved. 

But the heavier body would have a lower velocity 
than the lighter in proportion to its total numerical 
superiority in centre-changes and independently 
of the mass of the groups or associations of which 
it was composed. (Cf. page 169.) 

Furthermore the lines of approach of the two 
bodies must be quite different from the lines of 
approach of the two unattached centre-changes. 
The unattached centre-changes were not revolving 
about their centres; so they attracted one another 
in cosmic lines. In the case of two groups composed 
of revolving centre-changes, it would seem that no 



178 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

inducement might be offered along the cosmic lines 
connecting the groups, no matter what relation to 
the velocity of migrants was borne by the rotary 
velocity of centre-changes. Each migrant from the 
revolving centre-changes of either group has been 
continuously twisting and turning about in the 
cosmon, and when it arrives at the other group, 
must attract it away from any cosmic line leading 
from one group to the other. The following mi- 
grants also attract it away from these cosmic lines 
but in different manners according to the succes- 
sively different relative positions of their lines 
of emergence from the revolving centre-changes. 
Eventually a migrant arrives which attracts it 
away from the cosmic lines in a manner opposite 
to that of the first migrant; and, still later, one 
that attracts it in the same manner as that of the 
first migrant. But all these migrants have not alone 
a twisting and turning motion in the cosmon; they 
must have a forward motion as well, else they would 
never have reached another group. This forward 
motion of migrants, though so modified as to be 
incapable of attracting groups or centre-changes 
in cosmic lines, must nevertheless cause their suc- 
cessive departures from cosmic lines to bring them 
into cosmic rows always nearer to the source of 
attraction. 

The above description of a spiral line of attraction 
may seem to be a descriptive retrogression into 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 179 

the more superficially symbolical. And doubt- 
less the spiral motion of our symbolical migrants 
would consist of steps forward alternating with 
steps to one side. Might we, then, conceive one 
migrant as attracting a revolving centre-change in 
cosmic lines, and the next as modifying the char- 
acter of its revolution about its centre? But this 
conception must be modified when we recognise 
that every migrant, whether arriving in a cosmic 
line or not, would probably modify the character 
of the revolution of a centre-change, no matter 
what was the velocity of this revolution, by virtue 
of its interference with the lines of supply of the 
centre-change during its winding passage through 
the cosmon. Or, for every migrant that had failed 
so to interfere with a line of supply, there would 
probably be one that had at least twice so interfered. 
The amount of this mutual interference with all 
lines of supply would obviously vary directly with 
the average rotary velocity of the members of both 
groups, since upon this depends the degree of de- 
flection of the lines of migration from cosmic lines. 
It would also vary inversely with the square of the 
distance. In sum, the amount of mutual inter- 
ference and consequent modification of the character 
of revolution in both groups would vary directly 
with the mass of each and inversely with the square 
of the distance. But the inducement to the groups 
to approach one another varies in just this way; 



180 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

hence the "spiral" line of attraction would always 
be the same in character, whatever the mass, or 
internal motions of the groups, or the distance be- 
tween them. And the same spiral would be the 
line of all simple motions of groups in the cosmon, 
for all simple motions, whether resulting from an 
attractive pull or an explosive push, would reveal 
the dependence of the degrees of forward induce- 
ment and of lateral deflexion upon the same con- 
ditions of mass and distance. All complex motions 
of groups would, of course, be the resultants of two 
or more simple motions. Two groups would thus 
come more quickly and directly together if they 
were left to themselves than if one of them was 
subjected to an opposite pull. 

In order to gain some idea of the character of 
this uniform spiral line of motion of groups, we must 
bear in mind the effect upon groups of the forward 
inducement of migrants. We have seen that the 

2 U 
visit of —=— migrants, or of their equivalent in mi- 
grants possessing a manifold attraction, would be 
required to induce any centre-change to make its 
first forward move ; and that an attraction equal to 

— - — would be required to induce a group of 

M 1000 to make its first forward move. During 
the period required for the bringing of this force to 
bear — whether this period be a single kinema or 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 181 

a million — there must be lateral or rotary modi- 
fications of the group. And the greater the for- 
ward inducing force, — i.e. the greater the mass 
involved and the less the distance, — the more 
numerous will be these lateral or rotary modifica- 
tions. The constant ratio between the two depends, 

2 U 
of course, upon the quantity — ; i.e. upon the 

number of cosmoids in a cosmic row, the number 

2 U 
of cosmic lines connecting the two groups. If — - 

was sufficiently great or sufficiently small, — if it 
was such as would have made possible a system of 
supply adequate to the maintenance of a centre- 
change in the first place, — the ratio of the number 
of forward inducements to the number of lateral 
modifications would, for any given period and under 
any circumstances, equal one. This would mean 
that, for every unit of distance by which any group 
approached another group in cosmic lines, it would 

2 U 
have experienced — - lateral or rotary modifications. 

If the stable group or its rotating member be 
regarded as a solid mass, irrespectively of its chang- 
ing component parts, our naming of its line of 
motion a "spiral" is doubtless unsuitable, since 
neither the group nor the member may wind in and 
out of that column of cosmic rows which constitute 
the cosmon. But "spiral" seems not so bad a 



182 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

name for any particular aspect of its motion — for 
any aspect, however limited, however extended, 
which does not embrace its whole and exclude any 
implication of its parts. Let us enquire what there 
is in such motion that might conceivably affect the 
sense of sight of a seeing and thinking being who 
could never have perceived anything, whether in 
motion or at rest as a whole, that was not in the 
first place in continuous motion within itself, and 
the motion of whose parts was not being continu- 
ously modified by impulses emanating from other 
internally agitated things; who, after perceiving 
anything, could never perceive it again and call 
it the same thing unless it had in the interval com- 
pletely changed within itself. Such a being am I 
undoubtedly, and such are all the others of my race. 
I will assume, then, — without attempting to 
justify the assumption, — that the two bodies under 
consideration (the heavier and the lighter league 
of associations of stable groups) are the Earth and 
a tennis ball. I am standing directly between the 
ball and the centre of the Earth, watching the ball 
as it falls through the air; and I am asking myself 
two questions: 

(1) What is there in this motion of a league of 
stable groups that may conceivably be giving rise 
to my sense-impression of the moment ? — and 

(2) How does this motion appear to me? 

To the first question there are three possible 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 183 

answers, the acceptance of any one of which means 
the rejection of the other two. 

(a) That which is giving rise to my sense-impres- 
sion of the moment is an independently rotating 
centre-change or succession of centre-changes which, 
quite apart from its rotary motion, is being drawn 
towards the Earth in cosmic lines by the Earth's 
migrants. This answer is plainly untrue as a 
whole or in any of its partial implications, for the 
very migrants which are drawing the ball to the 
Earth are those which are modifying the rotation 
of its centre- changes. 

(b) The cause of my sense-impression is a solid 
mass of cosmon, whose internal changes bear no 
relation to my sense of sight and which, as a whole, 
is advancing towards the Earth in cosmic lines be- 
cause it may not leave that column of cosmic rows 
which constitutes the universe. But, knowing as 
I do that the motion of such an inert thing has 
never been the occasion of any earlier sense-impres- 
sion of mine, it would be the height of folly in me 
to suppose that the conditions of vision had sud- 
denly changed. And unless they had completely 
changed I could not, in looking down these cosmic 
lines, perceive more than the advance guard of 
the tennis ball which might at any moment, so far 
as I could tell, be an inch or a yard away and would 
perhaps not differ from the advance guard of the 
Earth under my feet. 



184 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

(c) What gives rise to my sense-impression of 
the moment must, then, so far as the character of 
its motion is concerned, be the succession of changes 
of position of the imperishable cosmoids in some 
of the centre-changes of the tennis ball: which 
succession of changes, when regarded in any aspect 
save that one which might not affect my sense of 
sight, is advancing towards me in a kind of spiral 

line,—— steps being taken in as many different direc- 
tions away from the most direct line of approach, 
to every single step taken in this direct or cosmic 
line. 

The answer to the second of my two questions — 
How does this motion appear to me? — is obvious 
enough. The tennis ball appears to me to be taking 
the shortest course between two points. 

If the ball was thrown down to me from a tower, 
it would reach me in less time than if allowed to 
fall of its own weight, but the character of its line 
of flight would be precisely the same. It might 
reach me in less time than would be required to 
bring together two unattached, unrevolving, centre- 
changes which had been separated by the same 
distance; but its course, in so far as it might be 
apprehended by any sense of mine, would be far 
longer. 

If, in being thrown, the ball was made to spin 
round on an axis, it might indeed reach me, but its 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 185 

original spiral line would have been modified many 

times by another kind of force, producing motions 

in the same kind of line. It would therefore appear 

to me to be taking a longer course than the shortest 

I had ever observed. 

If I picked up a crystal from the ground, I should 

know, then, that its edges appeared to me straight 

because I had never observed anything that was 

straighter ; that my ability to see these edges at all 

2 U 
depended upon their making — - departures from 

cosmical straightness to every unit of persistence 
in this straightness. 

If, in sum, the Earth and the tennis ball are 
leagues of stable groups, it is clear that " lines" 
of any kind must exist only in partial sense per- 
ceptions, and that when we come to draw them 
about any deeper symbols of reality we are likely 
to get into difficulties. Nevertheless, the apparent 
cosmical transition from " lines everywhere" to 
"no lines at all" can hardly be an abrupt one; and 
we may soon find the idea, just now gained, of the 
conceivably spiral character of the straight line to 
be of use in our enquiry. 

In connexion with the mutual attraction of groups, 
we should bear always in mind the necessity of 
regarding them from a geometrical, not an ulti- 
mate, point of view. Geometrical position is con- 
ceived by us with reference to some apparently 



186 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

fixed object such as the Earth, which is not percep- 
tibly moved by the attraction of bodies that fall 
through the air to its surface; and any conception 
that we may gain of the motions of our stable groups 
must be similar in character. We must remember 
that a stable group is, from its own point of view, 
the limit or centre of its universe, although from 
the point of view of another group it is not the limit 
or centre of the universe, but may, on the contrary, 
have groups both in front of it and behind it. In 
apprehending any given motion of any group we 
must take the point of view of the group or league 
of groups from which is proceeding the push or pull 
determining this motion. The pushing or pulling 
body is, in respect of the motion in question, the 
limit or centre of the universe ; although, in respect 
of any motions of its own — all of which are de- 
termined from without — this point of view may 
not be taken. In respect of any motions that it 
is determining it is thus a fixed centre, no matter 
how rapidly it may be moving in response to other 
pushes or pulls in respect of which it has other 
bodies both in front of it and behind it. 

For example, if there are four groups in the cosmon 
placed as at (1) in Figure 16, and the one prepon- 
derating pull comes from a, all the other groups 
will steadily approach a's limit or centre of the 
cosmon in space 1. 

But if there are two preponderating pulls in the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 187 

cosmon, one from b governing a's motion, and the 
other from c governing d's motion, a's point of view 
as at (1) may no longer be taken in a consideration 
of either incident. From 6's point of view there are 
groups both in front of and behind a; and a will 
move away from c, yet towards b. If, in imagina- 
tion, I try to identify myself with a, a body power- 
less to produce any appreciable effect upon any- 
thing in the cosmon, I find that this point of view 
cannot be taken, a exists only from o's point of 
view; and if the incident is to have any meaning 
for me, I must transfer myself to b. When a has 
approached sufficiently near to b to cause b to move, 
I may take the point of view of either group in con- 
sidering the motions of the other; but I may never 
take the point of view of either group in considering 
its own motions, for I could not then know them 
to be motions. 

In respect of all the pulls in the cosmon, a is, 
however, approaching c instead of receding from it ; 
and this influence of 6's will figure in any reciprocal 
influences between c and a. 

If, again, there is one preponderating pull from c 
which, however, fails to reach a, d and b will be 
drawn towards one another, towards c, yet away 
from a. From c's point of view they are as near 
as possible to one another, and the sum of their 
journeys to the centre of the cosmon will be a dis- 
tance of seven. Any influence, however, that one 



188 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

of them may incidentally exert upon the other will 
in the beginning be exerted at a distance of seven; 
and at any later stage of their journeys it will be 
exerted at a distance less than seven by twice the 
distance that either has covered in its approach to c. 

No matter how many groups or leagues of them 
were in the cosmon, we must regard their motions 
thus from successively different points of view; 
and any comprehensive survey of mixed motions 
may not be compassed by a mixture of points of 
view, but only by an alternation of wholly different 
points of view which, if sufficiently rapid, will appear 
as a mixture. 

The many implications of the mutual attraction 
and repulsion of stable groups remain yet to be 
considered. For reasons which will appear in the 
course of the enquiry, it seems best to undertake 
this consideration in connexion with our considera- 
tion of the vibration of groups. And before entering 
upon the subject of vibration, we may try to dis- 
cover how a non- vibrating group would appear to an 
evolutionary being if it might appear to him at all. 

To this end I will place myself in imagination in 
the cosmic row of average distance within a group 
of centre-changes which is about to take a definite 
and stable form, and describe some of the things 
I might see while there. I do not mean to suggest 
that I might actually see or feel a centre- change ; 
but I do mean that I might gain some image, more 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 189 

or less satisfactory, of the organisation of a group 
through experiments in which the sole factors were 
my senses of sight and touch, supplemented by in- 
struments that were entirely made up of straight 
lines and curved lines. For the sake of brevity I 
will say that, under certain circumstances, I may 
actually see centre-changes. Otherwise I possess all 
the faculties and limitations of a human being; 
and I am placed in what is about to become the 
cosmic row of average distance within a stable group. 

I will suppose that the centre- changes about to be 
banded together in this group have come to rest 
after their mutual approach in cosmic lines, but 
have not yet begun to rotate within themselves. 
It is clear, then, that I, being human, could not 
see them. I might perhaps see the cosmoids of 
which they were composed, and count all their 
individual changes. But collectively they could 
be nothing to me so long as collectively they did 
nothing. 

As soon, however, as the centre-changes begin to 
rotate within themselves, I may indeed see them. 
If they begin at once to rotate in the manner pecul- 
iarly suited to the group, I may from my row of 

2 U 
average distance get -— glimpses of them which 

might, and doubtless would, appear to me to be 

2 U 

continuous. And if — =— was sufficiently great, I 



190 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

might go on looking at them to the end of my days 
without danger of losing any of them from sight. 

Since the group is not supposed to be vibrating, 
each of its members must always remain at the 
same distance from me in both cosmic and spiral 
lines; for we have seen that distance in spiral 
lines varies with distance in cosmic lines; and we 
have seen that each member of a group has but 
one position with reference to any other member 
or cosmic row within the group. But we have 
also seen that to every unit of distance in cosmic 

lines there are — - units of distance in spiral lines, 

no two of which are in the same cosmic line. Hence 
any member of my group, as a, bearing a fixed 
relation to me in cosmic lines must, while in motion, 
appear to bear a constantly changing relation to 
me when viewed along spiral lines — the only lines 
along which any motions in the cosmon might be 
apprehended by me. In the time required for its 

2 77 . 

-— successive changes, a will appear to me to be 

2 U 
successively at the ends of -jr different spiral lines 

U 

of equal length. For there must be •— different 

spiral lines in the cosmon; and any point in any 
one of them could be apprehended only in the appro- 
priate rotary change of a centre-change. Since a 
must be making all possible rotary changes in respect 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 191 

of my position, — i.e. presenting its most diverse 
possible aspects to the row of average distance, — 
it will appear to me successively as the point at a 
given distance from me in all possible spiral lines. 

2 U 

All possible rotary changes are -— ; and all possible 

U 
spiral lines are — . But, though the rotation within 

any stable group must be the same in character 
in corresponding members in the opposite halves 
of the group, it is clear that each member must at 
any given moment reach a stage of its rotation 
opposite to the stage reached at the same moment 
by the corresponding member on the other side of 
the row of average distance. Otherwise, — it being 
obvious that the velocity of migrants must be vastly 
higher than the highest possible rotary velocity of 
centre-changes, — the members of the group could 
not, in the sums of their rotations, be presenting 
to the average row their most diverse possible 
aspects, and so benefiting to the fullest extent from 
one another's fields. When a has made a complete 
rotation upon itself, it will appear to be in the same 
position as when it first became visible. In sum, 
it will appear to me to have passed through every 
point in the surface of a sphere of which I am the 

centre, and my ■— successive straight lines of 

vision the radii. 

Other members, as b and c, might appear to be 



192 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

travelling at different velocities and, at any given 
moment, in different planes, if their rotary velocities 
were different, and if the successive steps in their 
rotations were in different cosmic lines. 

It would be impossible for me to ride upon one 
of these apparently revolving centre-changes, but if 
I placed myself in the cosmic row next to one of 
them, it would still appear to me to be revolving 
about the row I had left and preserving a uniform 
average distance from its fellow-members, because 
there would be between me and it from 1 to 2 U 
units of distance in straight lines. D 

If my group becomes associated with another 
group, all its members will acquire higher velocities, 
and at any given moment will appear to be travel- 
ling in different planes. 

The members of another group than my own will 
appear to me to be in continuous motion, though 
not upon the surfaces of spheres of which I am the 
centre. The members of my own group are rotating 
so as to present themselves to me, in my row of 
average distance, in their utmost diversity of char- 
acter. This utmost diversity in a member that 
appears to me to be moving as a whole consists, as 
we have seen, in an apparent revolution about me as 
a centre. In another group whose members are 
rotating with regard to another row of average 
distance, not my own, the apparent revolution will 
be less diverse from my point of view and will vary 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 193 

in character according to the successive apparent 
planes of motion. With growing experience in 
watching other groups I should come to divine 
approximately the locations of their apparent cen- 
tres or rows of average distance; and when these 
groups were not moving as a whole, their centres, 
which I could not see, would appear to me fixed, 
even as the invisible centre of my own group ap- 
pears to me fixed by reason of its being determined 
by the constant relations of members. 

A league of groups so closely packed together, and 
at such a distance from me that I could not dis- 
tinguish the individual apparent motions of their 
members, would, for the same reason, appear fixed, 
or in motion in a straight or bent line as the case 
might be. 

The possible significance of differences in the veloc- 
ities in cosmic lines of migrants from groups of dif- 
ferent mass will not be considered in the course 
of this investigation, because no groups could be 
stable in which the highest rotary velocity of mem- 
bers was not vastly lower than one cosmoid per 
kinema; hence the forward velocity of any migrant 
must be vastly higher than any other velocity 
with which we shall have anything to do. All 
migrants from the same group would have the same 
velocity, for they would have passed through all its 
centre-changes (cf. Figs. 15, 16, 17), modified their 
several characters of rotation, and in turn suffered 



194 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

equal degrees of modification of their lines of mi- 
gration. The significance of any differences in their 
velocities must therefore lie beyond the scope of 
this investigation. 

Let us now undertake that review of group-vi- 
brations in which we were at the outset interrupted 
by the necessity of gaining some idea of the attrac- 
tive force which must result in collisions competent 
to set them up. 

In the first place it is important to recognise that 
these vibrations must be extremely slow as com- 
pared with the velocity of migrants. Every group 
in the cosmon is subject to many conflicting pulls 
and pushes ; the preponderating pull or push repre- 
sents at any time a proportion numerically very 
small of the migrants from the pulling or pushing 
source; and to find the consequent effect in the 
velocity of approach in cosmic lines we must, as 
we have seen, divide the total inducement of attract- 

2 U 
ing migrants by — — . By the flight of an arrow we 

may represent the motion of migrants ; by a creep- 
ing shadow at midday, the advance in cosmic lines 
of a stable group at the utmost possible velocity. 

Figure 16 has illustrated the necessity that any 
member of a group must occupy at any given mo- 
ment as many positions in that group as there were 
other members of the group; that it must occupy 
as many different positions in an association as there 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 195 

were other centre-changes in the association; that 
it must occupy as many different positions in the 
cosmon as there were other centre-changes in the 
cosmon; but that it must occupy only one position 
in respect of any given centre-change or cosmic 
row. If Figure 16 leaves any room for doubt, 
diagrams similar to this one and on a larger scale 
will make it clear that, no matter what was the value 
of D, no centre-change could be the member of more 
than one group at the same time. 

It is obvious that the near approach of groups, at 
either accelerated or retarded velocities, must entail 
a growing menace to the integrity of both groups, 
whether they had the same or different masses and 
velocities of approach. For the members of each 
group are rotating with regard to the average row 
of their own group; and modifications of this pri- 
mary rotation beyond a certain strength must dis- 
rupt the group. Even if they at once recognised 
their associative possibilities, — as they would do 
if their earlier experience of such associations was 
sufficiently large, — there must still be a certain 
degree of menace both before and after the forma- 
tion of the association. If the two groups were 
mutually unassociable and came together at a suffi- 
ciently high velocity, they would, if not otherwise 
interfered with, rebound from one another. This 
mutual repulsion would not begin at so early a stage 
of the collision when that epoch in the cosmic life 



196 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

had been reached in which a repeated and universal 
experience of the advantage of differentiation in- 
herent in the vibration of groups had resulted in the 
survival of those groups alone whose members hung 
mobile in the middle of their admissible paths of 
motion within the groups. If the stable groups of 
any epoch were each a billion cosmic rows in length, 
each member of a group of M 1000 might have an 
admissible path of nearly a million cosmic rows. 
We should remember that the ratio of mass to size 
would, on the other hand, be limited by the necessity 
that members of a stable group be kept in the same 
average positions in the group without risk of being 
attracted forth into the cosmon. But if D be suffi- 
ciently great, many different sets of groups are readily 
conceivable which would remain absolutely impreg- 
nable to one another's assaults until such time as the 
systematic exigencies of their component members 
should impose the successive disbandment of in- 
dividual groups of any variety or of entire varieties 
of groups in favour of new varieties. 

Such disbandment, in the case of the heavier 
groups and associations of groups — each of whose 
members occupies as many different positions in 
the group as there are other members — must be 
a somewhat complicated process. In some cases 
the centre-changes might leave their group in vari- 
ous manners according to their former positions in 
the group. Some of them might be banded together 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 197 

in lighter groups that were more or less markedly 

unsuited to the prevalent cosmic activities and must 

therefore in time be subdivided or combined with 

other such groups. Other members of the original 

group might depart singly into the cosmon at a 

velocity so high — though, as compared with their 

migrants, they would have but a snail's pace — 

that each of them in turn must be accepted as a 

member of the first group it encountered, whilst 

one of the original members of that group was 

driven from it at a corresponding velocity. All 

the different consequences of the disbandment of a 

group must be productive of disturbances similar, 

in their effect upon other groups, to the vibrations 

of groups arising from collisions. 

The members of any group, upon collision with 

another group, must move towards that cosmic 

row which is at the least average distance from them 

all, the group being in consequence reduced in length. 

This motion would be in the usual spiral line, and 

its velocity in cosmic lines would be very low as 

compared with that of migrants. To each unit of 

distance moved by each member in cosmic lines, 

there would be a complete rotary modification of 

2U 
its primary rotation of value — — in units of distance. 

All the lines of supply would be disturbed by this 
mutual approach of members just as they had been 
by the mutual approach of the two groups ; and this 



198 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

disturbance could be compensated only by an even- 
tual opposite disturbance in the form of a general 
recession of the members from the cosmic row of 
average distance to cosmic rows as distant respec- 
tively from their normal positions in the group as 
these normal positions were from the most central 
positions that had been reached. If the original 
disturbing cause was removed, this compensation 
would be at once effected, and a series of opposite 
and compensative motions would follow, diminishing 
in extent as the inertia of the group permitted its 
regaining that form in which consisted its highest 
intrinsic stability. 
The net results of the collision would have been 

2 U 
the spirally linear vibration of the two groups, — 

side motions to 1 forward ; the similar spirally linear 
modification of all their lines of supply; and the 
consequent spirally linear vibration of all other 
groups reached by these lines of supply. 

The amplitude of the original vibrations would be 
as the intensity of the force setting them up — i.e. 
as the mass of the groups into their velocity in cosmic 
lines — and inversely as the mass of the groups. 
The amplitude of the responsive vibrations in other 
groups would be as the mass into the amplitude of 
vibration of the originally vibrating groups, and 
inversely as their own mass and the square of the 
distance. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 199 

In any groups the vibratory rates would vary with 
their mass, but would probably, in the case of vibra- 
tion proceeding from a single cause, be independent 
of the amplitude of vibration ; because, if the mem- 
bers travelled far inward on their paths, they would 
repel one another the more forcibly and would 
acquire a proportionally higher velocity. The high- 
est velocity of vibration must, as we have seen, be 
very low as compared with the velocity of migrants. 
A vibratory wave travelling through the cosmon 
might, then, be conceived as a series of a thousand 
modifications of the lines of supply, between every 
two of which modifications was a length of billions 
of cosmoids of unmodified line. 

These modifications must all have been subject 
to the primary rotations of the centre-changes. 
That is to say, though they could never be lost nor 
diminished in intensity, their passage through each 
centre-change must have been delayed or accelerated 
according to the successive primary rotary velocities 
of these centre-changes. And Figure 16 shows us 
that every linear modification proceeding from a 
group must pass through each of its members. 
For the motion of any member in its vibratory 
path must be regarded not from its own point of 
view, but from the point of view of those other 
members which are disturbing its lines of supply. 
From the successive points of view of all members 
of the group — i.e. from the point of view of the 



200 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

group as a whole — each member must, then, receive 
the vibratory impulse from every other member, 
modify its velocity and character, and suffer modi- 
fication by it in return. The wave proceeding from 
the group as a whole would be the resultant of all 
the several modifications of lines of supply by its 
members. Since the vibratory rate of the group is 
independent of its amplitude of vibration, the wave- 
length would always be the same; but the wave 
strength — i.e. the total number of modifications 
within a given lateral distance — would vary with 
the mass and with the amplitude of vibration. 

Since both the primary rotary velocity and the 
vibratory velocity of members vary with the mass 
of the group, the velocity of the waves in the cosmon 
must be the same whether emanating from a heavier 
or a lighter group. That the waves would always 
have the same velocity when emanating from a 
group having successively different amplitudes and 
consequently different velocities of vibration, will 
appear from the following consideration of a certain 
condition of vibration in groups. 

The members of a stable group, in slowly closing 
up towards the row of average distance, must con- 
tinuously increase their primary rotary velocities 
with the squares of the distances ; else the peculiar 
organisation of the group could not be preserved, 
and the group must cease to exist as such. The 
compensating elongation of the group would be 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 201 

accompanied by a corresponding decrease in rotary 
velocities. During the last half of the outward 
journey of a member, both the linear and the pri- 
mary rotary velocity would be approaching the 
minimum. During the first half of the inward 
journey both velocities would increase. During 
the last half of the inward journey the linear velocity 
would again be approaching the minimum, but the 
rotary velocity would be approaching the maximum. 
During the first half of the outward journey linear 
velocity would increase and rotary velocity diminish. 
Since the rate of increase and decrease of both 
velocities varies with the mass of the group, the 
ratio between the two average velocities in any 
complete vibration would always be the same in 
any group independently of the amplitude of vibra- 
tion. And each wave of modifications, as a whole, 
would then preserve the same velocity. 

In considering the effect upon groups of the passage 
of the modifying waves through the cosmon, we 
must bear in mind the spiral character of these waves 
and of the vibrations that give rise to them. Unlike 
the long spiral lines of supply of rotating centre- 
changes, these waves or series of modifications of 
the lines of supply travel in spirals consisting each 

2 U 

of — - lateral movements to 1 forward movement. 

It would seem, then, that each modification of any 



202 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

line of supply must, in consequence, upon reaching 
any group, cause a corresponding modification of 
the character of rotation of every member of this 
group and then pass on into the cosmon beyond, 
with an undiminished power of exerting a similar 
influence upon any other groups that did not lie 
beyond the end of the line of supply. Such modi- 
fications would, then, set up in any group a spirally * 
linear vibration which would contain no possible 
implications of a perilous congestion of groups. Or 
if, for any reason, the waves might not alter the 
relative positions of members in cosmic lines, they 
would still alter their rotary positions. 

But certain considerations make it evident that 
not all groups would be in a position to respond to 
the vibratory inducement emanating from any given 
group and passing through a second group. 

At (1) in Figure 16, let b and c be vibrating groups 
and let a be an unallied centre- change. Let us en- 
quire in what ways a may respond to the vibratory 
inducements emanating from c. 

Whatever the mass and vibratory amplitude of b 
or c, a may, under certain circumstances, receive 
simultaneously certain waves belonging peculiarly 
to b and certain other waves which belong peculiarly 
to c, but which, on their journey to a, have modified 



1 By spiral will always be understood henceforth the spiral of 
ratio 1 : — — , which is the line of motion of everything in the 
cosmon save the individual cosmoids themselves. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 203 

the vibratory character of b and proceeded on their 
way with their modifying power undiminished save 
with the square of the distance in cosmic lines. 

But if one of c's waves — i.e. one set of vibratory 
modifications — coincides with one of 6's waves at 
the moment of its arrival at a, a will undoubtedly 
lose the vibratory inducement from either b or c. 
This coincidence could not amount to a reduplica- 
tion similar to the twofold inducement of attractive 
migrants each of which visits but one change in a 
centre-change and, if possessing a manifold induce- 
ment, must exert it variously upon the visited and 
adjacent changes according to their various relations 
to the attractive influence. A vibratory wave, 
on the other hand, travelling in spiral lines, implies 
a succession of modifications of every change in every 
centre-change through which it passes. There would 
be room in any centre-change for an indefinite num- 
ber of such waves of the same or different strength 
at the same time; but the complete coincidence of 
any two waves of like strength could have but a 
single effect, since in visiting together all portions 
of the centre-change, they must offer the same in- 
ducement to any given change. Similarly, the coin- 
cidence of one wave with a portion of another wave 
would mean that the effect of the weaker wave was 
lost. 

This coincidence of the waves from b and c will 
take place in a if b occupies the same rotary position 



204 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

relatively to a certain future position of a's, as is 
represented by the modifications which b is receiving 
from c. In other words, if c was undergoing pre- 
cisely the same set of rotary changes relatively to 
the future set of rotary changes in a at the moment 
of emanation of the wave as is b at the moment of 
receiving it, the weaker vibratory wave will at a 
be merged in the stronger; and a's response will be 
as to b alone, if b's wave is the stronger, containing 
all of c's wave and other modifications besides. 

If the waves from b and c do not reach a at the 
appropriate moment, they will not coincide ; for it 
is with reference to the rotary changes in a that 
b and c may occupy the same or different positions 
in respect of a in addition to their difference in 
distance in cosmic lines. All modifications in these 
two waves have been approaching a in spirals the 

2 U 
same in character (1 : -— ) though inevitably differ- 
ent, so far as a is concerned, in the particular succes- 
sion of lines of supply affected in all but one of 

2 U 
any — — successive cosmic rows through which they 

may pass. For every cosmic row — consisting, as it 
does, of portions of cosmic lines — is by assumption 
different from every other cosmic row in respect of 
any centre-change or group in the cosmon. And 
the difference between any given row and an ad- 
jacent row is less than between the given row and 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 205 

a row next but one to it. Hence any simple spiral 
line in the cosmon involves, in its passage through 
successive cosmic rows, successively the least possible 
differences in adjacencies of cosmoids. Since, at 

2 U 

the end of -— such departures from its original char- 
acter, it must return upon itself, it follows that the 

cosmon consists of — — cosmic rows, and contains 

U 

— different simple spiral lines, each line having 

two opposite directions corresponding to the oppo- 
sition between the two cosmoids constituting any 
change. 

Now, any two waves from b and c respectively 
have originated in two different portions of the 
cosmon; and, so far as a is concerned, they consist 
in successive modifications of a's lines of supply 
always, be it remembered, by migrants travelling 

2 U 
in long spirals (not 1 : -— ). Their presence in a 

is best conceived — as described above — as spiral 

2 U 
waves (1 : — -) visiting every change in a, and their 

influence upon a must inevitably correspond to this 
conception. But their coincidence or divergence 
in a obviously depends upon the particular winding 
course that a's lines of supply may be following in 
the cosmon ; i.e. it depends upon the primary rotary 
character of a. If a has at all times any given 



206 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

rotary character, there is but one row in the cosmon 
in which a may lose the vibratory inducement from 
c. Conversely, if a occupies at all times a given cos- 
mic row, it may lose c's inducement only provided 
it have the appropriate rotary character. If it 
lost it while occupying space 1, — at (1), Figure 16, 

— it could not lose it while occupying the same 
rotary position in space 2, although it would lose it 
while in space 2, if occupying the appropriate rotary 
position. 

Immediately upon leaving a (in space 1) the joint 
wave will be split up into the c elements and the b 
elements for the benefit of any imaginary centre - 
change adjacent to a and bearing the same rotary 
relation to b and c as was borne by a upon the arrival 
of the wave at a. Such a centre-change would 
respond to both waves, and the character of its 
response would be suited to its position just one row 
removed from the dead row occupied by a. It 
would also respond to any imaginary wave from a. 
Similar centre-changes situated at distances of two, 
three, four, etc., rows from a would respond to all 
three waves, according to their positions in cosmic 
rows. 

Now if a, instead of being an unallied centre- 
change, is a member of a vibrating group; and if 
the spiral line of a's vibratory path is that one of the 

— possible spirals which ensures its having the ap- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 207 

propriate rotary position relatively to b in each suc- 
cessive row occupied along this path, it will continue 
throughout the vibration of its group to be dead to 
c's influence, no matter what may be the velocity 
of this vibration. And a's vibratory path would 
indeed be this particular one if a's and b's posi- 
tions in the cosmon had been determined solely 
by c, — if, that is, they had been brought into these 
positions by the attraction or repulsion of c's mi- 

2 U 
grants, -y— side motions to 1 forward. If, now, by 

a we represent the whole group instead of a single 
member, it is obvious that under the assumed 
conditions — i.e. the establishment in the first place 
of a's and b's rotary positions by c — complete coin- 
cidence of the b and c waves will continue through- 
out the group a, no matter what may be the distance 
between the three groups. And the velocity of 
these waves will not be modified by their passage 
through a, since it is the same as a's vibratory rotary 
velocity. (Cf. page 200.) 

So long as a and b remained at the same distances 
from c, the successive waves from c would maintain 
constant amplitudes of vibration in a and b which 
would be increased or diminished only upon a corre- 
sponding increase or diminution in c's amplitude 
of vibration, or upon motion of one of the groups as 
a whole, or upon the intervention of some outside 
influence. 



208 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

If a and b began to move towards c, the successive 
disruptions and reformations of lines of supply 
would be the same in a as in b, for they would in 
each case be governed by c's migrants whose lines 
were, in turn, determined by the character of c's 
complete rotation. More migrants and more vi- 
bratory modifications from c would reach b than 
would reach a ; and, in the case of a, vibratory modi- 
fications would be missing in the same lines of supply 
in which migrants were missing, b would travel 
more rapidly than a and would have a greater am- 
plitude of vibration; but, inasmuch as neither of 
them could ever move forward into a new cosmic 

2 U 

row without having suffered — - lateral attractive 

modifications at the hands of c's migrants, each 
advance of theirs in cosmic rows would be deter- 
mined by the complete rotary character of c. During 
their entire journey, therefore, every vibratory wave 
from c would, upon reaching a, be merged in the 
presumably stronger wave from b. 

If 6's vibration had originally been set up by some 
larger and more distant body than c, as d, occupying 
a like rotary position, a would be responding in- 
directly to c's influence as transmitted by b. But 
all other things equal, — and we shall later consider 
some of the other factors in such situations, — a's 
amplitude of vibration must be less than if a and b 
were occupying different rotary positions, and a 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 209 

was in consequence responding to both direct and 
transmitted waves from c. The process of trans- 
mission of waves would obviously be slower in pro- 
portion to the number of groups by which they were 
successively transmitted; for the inertia of centre- 
changes would prevent any group from attaining 
at once to its maximum amplitude of vibration in 
response to any given vibratory influence. 

We have now to consider the effects upon a stable 
group or league of groups of a mixed attractive 
inducement, — i.e. of the conflicting inducements 
proceeding from two or more bodies having different 
rotary positions. 

Differences in rotary position are inevitable in the 
symbolical cosmon, and their origin lies in the con- 
ditions under which stable groups are formed, — i.e. 
in the differences in mass and the implied differences 
in character of primary rotation. The consequent 
differences in induced rotation would, of course, be 
cumulative ; and, to find the rotary position of a group 
at any time, one must know the history of all the in- 
fluences to which it has ever been subjected. We 
have already seen that the history of positions of a 
lighter group would be longer than that of a heavier. 

In Figure 16, let d have a different rotary position 
from c% and let b be subject to both their attractive 
influences, b will then have acquired a new rotary 
position; and there will no longer be a complete 
merging at a of c's vibratory wave in Vs. 



210 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Leaving a henceforth out of account, we shall see 
that if b approaches c and d, all the migrants attract- 
ing it, though increasing in number, will steadily 
lose more and more of their attractive power since 
each migrant, though attracting b forward in cosmic 
lines, is at the same time attracting it in a spiral 
that is peculiar to either c or d. The c elements 
will always be at war with the d elements ; b's motion 
will be ever slower in proportion to the number of 
migrants reaching it, — i.e. more migrants will 
be required to produce a given advance in cosmic 
lines or change of rotary position; and the spiral 
line of b's motion will be the resultant of the two 
influences. 

If the two influences are always equal — we shall 
see presently how this would be possible — in mi- 
gratory strength at 6, neither may cause b to swerve 
farther and farther from the other's simple spiral. 
b's line of motion will then be a simple spiral line 
intermediate between the other two. 

Moreover, the c and d influences being always 
equal, b may never arrive either at c or at d. Nor 
may it approach beyond a certain point without 
being rent in twain. If it is a sufficiently stable 
group, or league of groups, successfully to resist this 
disruptive tendency, it would seem that it must come 
to rest at that point where the migrants from c and 
d were present in sufficient force to prevent any 
further advance towards either body. But, under 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 211 

certain circumstances, such a sudden stoppage of 

6's progress would create in b a disruptive tendency 

quite as great as was created by the conflict between 

c's and d's migrants; for it would require that all 

2 U 
of b's lines of supply (in number — taken as many 

times as there were centre-changes in b) should 
immediately undergo a change far more radical than 
any that was imposed during its accelerated or re- 
tarded approach. That is to say, the period during 
which all the centre-changes composing b would re- 
main disrupted awaiting material suitably placed 
for reformation would be far longer than it had been 
at any stage of acceleration or retardation. And 
if this period of disruption was sufficiently prolonged, 
it is obvious that the gathering material for centre- 
changes must be split up into two classes in one of 
which c's influence would prevail over d's, whilst 
in the other d's would prevail over c's. 

We may surmise that at an early stage of cosmic 
experience such a group or league of groups as b 
would, under these circumstances, be disrupted. 
But stability of a group or league of groups consti- 
tutes, as we have seen, a universal advantage. 
Hence groups and certain leagues of them would 
doubtless come in time to invalidate this disruptive 
menace in the same manner as in their associations 
and internal vibrations: to wit, through a com- 
pensating modification of the primary rotation of 



212 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the group or of the secundo-primary rotation of the 
league. For, once the field of a centre-change is 
established, there must always be an abundance of 
material at hand for its renewal, if the superiority 
in velocity of migrants over the highest possible 
velocity of the centre-change in rotation or in spiral 
motion is as great as we must believe it to be. The 
menace contained in the situation described above 
lies not in the lack of material, but in the sudden 
and radical rearrangement of this material at its 
border. A displaced cosmoid arriving from a dis- 
tance of -- cosmoids might not enter the centre- 
change by a line of supply only two cosmoids long 
Or by a line which would bring it into a familiar 
adjacency to a familiar cosmoid without creating 

2 jj 
a menace to the system of supply of value 2 over — -. 

But all lines of supply are mutually though differently 
adjacent. Hence, if b's members continued to rotate 
in part as if they were still advancing in the inter- 
mediate simple spiral at a velocity retarded suffi- 
ciently gradually; if, that is, they continued so to 
rotate in all respects save of those lines of supply 
connecting b with c and d, — which lines must, in any 
conceivable instance, be exceedingly few in number 
as compared with the total number of lines of supply ; 
and if, in respect of these lines of c's and d's, they 
continued to rotate in that manner, unvarying as 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 213 

to position and velocity, prescribed by the conflict 
between c and d, — b would avert its own disruption, 
provided the conflicting inducements from c and d 
did not exceed a certain strength. 

A rotary vibration would thus be set up in b along 
the intermediate simple spiral line; and the length 
of its path in lateral distance, the period during which 
it would continue, and the rate of shortening of the 
path would depend upon the distance and mass 
involved and upon certain other features of the sit- 
uation which need not here be considered. Through- 
out this vibration b would occupy the same position 
in cosmic rows, and the attractive inducements of 
both c and d would remain constant. But at suc- 
cessive stages of the vibration any influences, at- 
tractive or vibratory, exerted by bodies other than 
c and d would have successively different strengths 
in b. The number of migrants received by b from 
any fixed body whatsoever would remain constant, 
but successive migrants woiild find b occupying suc- 
cessively different rotary positions, redundant in the 
sum, for responding to and for neutralising their 
influence — with this exception : that they would 
always find the opposition of c's and d's migrants the 
same. Vibratory waves travelling in spiral lines, 
whether from c or d or any other body, would en- 
counter similar differences in b; and b's amplitude 
of vibration in response to such waves and its op- 
portunities of eliminating waves through coincidence 



214 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

would vary precisely as if it was travelling up and 
down a simple spiral line which extended through 
successive cosmic rows. The actual spiral line of vi- 
bration would, of course, parallel itself in successive 
rotations with successively the least possible dif- 
ferences of adjacency corresponding to the differences 
of its course through successive cosmic rows. 

The rotary vibration described above seemed an 
obvious one to select for the presentation of certain 
factors which would be present in all rotary vibra- 
tions. Doubtless such vibration of a group or 
league of groups in a simple spiral line could not take 
place in a cosmon that contained a great number 
of groups occupying different rotary positions. 
The description of another kind of rotary vibration 
will possess greater significance in this enquiry. 

If the two influences to which b is subjected have 
different rotary positions and unequal strengths, 
the stronger will cause b to swerve farther and farther 
from any simple spiral line similar to the weaker's. 
Hence b's motion will not be in a simple but in a bent 
spiral. If these two influences are persistent, b 
will travel in the bent spiral line to a position near 
the body which is exerting the stronger influence, 
there to be brought to rest; and the changes then 
wrought in it by the weaker influence will depend 
upon a variety of circumstances, some of which are 
presently to be considered in connexion with another 
aspect of these induced rotations in groups. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 215 

But if the stronger of these two influences is re- 
moved while b is still travelling in the bent spiral 
line, a new kind of rotary vibration, or secondary 
rotation, may be set up in b in a bent spiral line. 
After a sufficient number of departures from the 
original simple spiral, this bent spiral line must 
return upon itself. This new vibration, or — to 
use a term perhaps more suitable — secondary 
rotation, will thus be redundant even as was the 
vibration in a simple spiral path. And though b 
of necessity remains fixed in cosmic rows and occupies 
always the same rotary position in respect of both 
the attractive influences, it must during any com- 
plete rotation occupy as many different rotary posi- 
tions in respect of all other influences as there are 
swervings from the original simple spiral represented 
in the relation between the two determining influ- 
ences. Eventually b will be drawn to the borders of 
the body from which is proceeding the persistent influ- 
ence ; and the time required for it to be brought thus 
to rest will depend upon b's mass — i.e. the total 
number of its centre-changes — upon the relation 
between the two influences, and upon the distance. 
But the relation between the two influences remaining 
constant, the bent spiral of 6's rotation will always 
be the same in character, no matter what may be 
the distance between b and the attracting body. 
And since each swerving from the spiral of the 
stronger influence (now removed) must be towards 



216 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the spiral of the persistent influence, and since but 

2 U 
two influences are involved — instead of the — 

influences involved in the primary rotation of a group 
(see page 190), — it seems that, if the relation of 
mass to distance was such as to make possible a 
redundant rotation in the first place, the bent spiral 
of b's rotation will, in respect of all other influences 
in the cosmon, be a circular or elliptical orbit. If, 
then, c is the body exerting the persistent influence, 
vibratory waves from a suitably placed third body, 
as a, will at one stage of the rotation be eliminated 
at c through coincidence with b's waves, whilst at 
the opposite stage of the rotation they will be elim- 
inated at b through coincidence with c's waves, 

— b remaining always between a and c in cosmic 
rows, but c's waves having opposite directions in 
b at opposite stages of the rotation. 

The character of such bent spiral lines of rotation 
may vary indefinitely — in accordance with the 
relation between the influences establishing them 

— in the particular simple spiral lines swerved 
from and in the distance travelled in simple spiral 
lines between each pair of swervings. 

If two bodies, as b and c, are subject to repellent 
influences respectively from two dissimilarly placed 
bodies, as a and d ; and if these repellent influences 
are removed, — b and c will continue to advance in 
simple spiral lines at constant velocities until some 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 217 

other influence supervenes to modify the particular 
systems of disruptions and reformations established 
by the pushes from a and d. If b and c come into 
one another's fields, a secondary rotation in a bent 
spiral will be set up in each of them with reference to 
a row of average distance between them. In respect 
of all other influences in the cosmon they will then 
be revolving about one another ; although in cosmic 
rows they may be advancing at a different velocity 
from that of the revolution or they may early have 
come to rest. Their position in cosmic rows, as well 
as the length of their paths of revolution and the 
duration of this revolution will of course depend 
upon their mass and upon the relation of a's position 
to d's. 

It is obvious that motion in a simple spiral line 
in response to a push from a given body will be the 
opposite of a similar motion in response to a pull 
from the same body. For, if the push gives place 
to a pull, all modifications must retrace their steps 
through all the centre-changes of the attracted body. 
Now, if b is subject only to the influence of c; and if, 
for any reason, c must both repel and attract b at 
the same time; if c's repellent influence is removed 
while b is still within c's field, — b will, in coming to 
rest in cosmic rows, enter upon a secondary rotation 
similar to the last but one considered. By virtue 
of the exact opposition between the two influences 
establishing this rotation, b will in respect of all 



218 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

other influences maintain the same distance from c 
in all its swervings from simple spirals. And these 
swervings will be continuous; i.e. b will never travel 
in a simple spiral line. 

The character of these bent lines of rotation or 
revolution will become clearer when we have further 
considered the implications of differences of rotary 
position in the cosmon. This consideration should 
now be undertaken in connexion with that other 
allied class of induced rotations of leagues of stable 
groups, — to wit, rotations upon axes. 

We should remember that the members of a stable 
group that is subject to no outside influence are 
rotating within themselves in different manners and 
at different velocities with regard to the cosmic 
row of average distance within their group. Though, 
when viewed from without, there might conceivably 
be more members on the hither side of the average 
row than on the farther side, or vice versa, the 
amount of rotary motion — i.e. the sum of the ro- 
tary changes in any given period of time — on the 
one side of it must equal the amount of rotary motion 
on the other side. And the character of the rotary 
motion on the one side must be the same as its char- 
acter on the other side, this character being depend- 
ent upon the mass of the group. But at any given 
moment the rotary motion must be, not the same 
but as different as possible in the two halves of the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 219 

group; i.e. for every line of supply in the one half 
disrupted and reformed at any moment in any given 
relation to a given cosmic line, there must occur at 
the same moment in the other half the disruption 
and reformation, in the same relation to this given 
cosmic line, of a line of supply whose adjacency to 
the line of supply corresponding to the line disrupted 
in the opposite half of the group is as different as 
possible relatively to the uniform character of ro- 
tation within the group; otherwise all members 
could not be presenting to the average row their 
most diverse possible aspects. (Cf. pages 166-168.) 
Thus if a and d, representing the opposite and out- 
ermost members of a group, exactly balance one 
another in rotary motion, — as it seems likely they 
would do, and as it will in this enquiry be convenient 
to assume that they do, although any more complex 
balancing of the two sides of a group would in no 
way affect the results of the enquiry, — any given 
modification of any given change in a will be dupli- 
cated in d only at the end of one-half of a primary 
rotation of either member. 

Now if this group, formed no matter how, is for the 
first time in its career subjected to an outside at- 
tractive influence, it may begin to move towards 
the attractive source in a simple spiral line. Let 
us suppose that it is for some reason debarred from 
changing its position either in cosmic rows or in 
successively different spiral rotations, — as might 



220 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

indeed be the case when a sufficient number of groups 
had been formed, — and let us consider the internal 
or lateral modifications which are caused by the 
attractive migrants and which, so far as we may 
now see, could never be suppressed by any outside 
influence. 

Each member and the group as a whole will have 
acquired a position in the cosmon determined by 
the primary rotary position of the outside attracting 
body, or by its primary rotation modified by a 
secondary rotation set up by some outside influence. 
That is to say, each member of the group has been 
given a new rotation or series of modifications of 
its primary rotation, redundant in the sum, and 
taking place around its centre or with reference to 
any given cosmic line. Within a certain period of 
time each change in each member will be modified 
by a migrant from the attractive source ; and in view 
of the vast superiority in velocity of migrants over 
the primary rotation, it seems highly unlikely that 
one change would be modified oftener than another. 

The period required for a complete secondary 
rotation of all members of the group will depend 
upon the migratory strength of the attractive influ- 
ence and also upon the mass of the group, — i.e. 
upon the total number of lines of supply to be modi- 
fied. For a migrant offering a single lateral induce- 
ment may not produce a lateral modification in each 
member of a stable group, but may produce only one 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 221 

such modification in the group. (Cf. pages 169 and 
201-203.) And all modifications of the primary 
rotation of a group must be kept uniform throughout 
the group; otherwise the peculiar character of the 
group is lost, and the group must cease to exist as 
such. The establishment of a primary rotation in 
the first place was the mark of the flexibility of the 
rotation of centre-changes; and in the case of in- 
duced rotations as in the case of vibrations, the 
concerted action of the allied members will avert 
any cumulative distortion of the group such as would 
arise from differences in their rotary velocities. 
The other menace of such distortion would be con- 
stituted by differences in the migratory strength 
of the new influence at the different members of the 
group. There can be no doubt that in any group 
which might in the first place have acquired the 
stability presumably inherent in an alliance depend- 
ent upon the system B (Fig. 14) the secondary 
rotary velocities of all members would always be 
the same ; and this velocity would be as the mass of 
the attracting body and inversely (1) as the mass of 
the attracted group and (2) as the square of the 
distance. 

We may here observe that in a league of stable 
groups whose members had a secundo-primary 
rotation with reference to the average row of the 
league this secundo-primary rotation would doubt- 
less, up to a point, be capable of equalising the ve- 



222 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

locities of induced rotations. But there could be no 
demand for, nor advantage in, an equalisation of 
vibratory velocities. Vibrations are not cumulative 
in their influence upon any motions in spiral lines, 
and contain no menace except in their amplitude 
of the moment. 
The line of any secondary rotation of a group is a 

certain one amongst the — simple spiral lines each 

of which, beginning in one of the two outermost 
members of the group, passes through all the changes 
in this member in a succession peculiar to itself, 
pursues that course through every other member 
which belongs to that member's position in cosmic 
rows, and ends in the opposite outermost member. 
And the rotation takes place not around another 
simple spiral line — for there is as yet but one, — 
but around any given cosmic line. 

The secondary rotation of all members is of course 
the same in character and in velocity; but at any 
given moment it must reach opposite stages in the 
opposite halves of the group. 

It is to be remembered that this rotation must be 
regarded from the point of view of its cause ; hence 
there are two outermost members, and other groups 
may be formed on the far side of the farther of these 
two outermost members. 

It is furthermore to be remembered that, vast 
as are the distances in cosmic lines separating the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 



223 



members of a stable group, they are exceedingly 
small as compared with the lateral distances (-p~) 

contained within each member. Diagrams are of 
course inadequate as illustrations of the unknown 
relations between these distances; nevertheless, 
we may find it of use to keep before us Figure 19, 



JL 



b 

£ 

d 



Fig. 19 

in which the horizontal lines a, b, c, and d represent 

the outermost and two other members of a group, 

2 U 
the line of whose secondary rotation, hk, is -— - times 

as long as it appears to be in the diagram. 

It is obvious that if the secondary rotation could 
have a velocity sufficiently high, the group would 
be disrupted, a and d being the first members to 
depart. Inasmuch as the stable group is probably 
more stable than any association or league of groups, 
and inasmuch as the numerical inferiority of any 
conceivable migratory inducement to the quantity 
2U 



D 



must be very great, it is hardly supposable that 



224 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

disruption of a group should thus be brought about 
unless the group was already on the verge of dis- 
bandment. But disruption of a weak association or 
league of associations might be brought about by 
migrants from one or from many sources. The dis- 
ruptive tendency produced in any group by rota- 
tion would be stronger if the group was at the same 
time in a state of vibration. And it would imply 
a tendency in a (Fig. 19) to move slowly away from 
b, and in d to move away from c. If a and d might 
actually move thus away from the average row 
either in cosmic rows or in rotary positions, they 
would by so much weaken the tendency in b and in 
c to move away from the average row. 

The situation of our group may, for present pur- 
poses, be summarised as follows : 

The group has but one position in the cosmon. 
Any given spiral motion whatsoever within the group 
will take place in d's half of the group, the space of 
just half a rotation later or earlier than in a's half. 
d, though receiving more or fewer migrants from 
the attractive source than a, will respond to them 
in the same degree because of primary rotary modi- 
fications preventive of a cumulative distortion of 
the group. 

As such, the group's situation can have no signifi- 
cance in a consideration of simple spiral lines, for 
there is but one such line in the group ; it is the same 
in rotation and in vibration and independently 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 225 

of the velocity of either; there is no spiral line in 
the cosmon with reference to which it may be ap- 
prehended; and there is no body upon which the 
rotation of the group may exert any measurable 
influence in spiral lines. Or if another attractive 
influence be exerted by a body occupying a like 
rotary position, the situation of the group will still 
possess no significance. 

But let another attractive influence be exerted 
upon the group by a body occupying a rotary posi- 
tion different from that of the first attracting body, 
and the situation of our group at once acquires sig- 
nificance in any consideration of spiral lines. 

We have assumed that for some reason this group 
might not respond to this mixed inducement by 
motion through successive cosmic rows or by those 
successive changes of rotary position which are 
tantamount to changes of position in cosmic rows. 
In less simple instances of rotation than the one 
under consideration a group might well be debarred 
from any change of position as a whole; for, long 
before two groups could come near to occupying 
the same rotary position (no matter how great the 
distance between them in cosmic lines) they would 
both be disrupted by their excessive modifications 
of one another's primary rotations. (Cf. page 195.) 
Hence, any group restrained from changes of rotary 
position as a whole by the proximity of other groups 
or by any other factor in its situation must, when 

Q 



226 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

subjected to a mixed inducement, enter upon a 
secondary rotation or rotations within itself; any- 
such rotation being redundant in the sum and follow- 
ing always the same course — i.e. involving no suc- 
cessive differences of adjacency — in any given 
member of the group. 

Let us suppose the original attracting body, or 
Pj to occupy a rotary position as different as possible 
in respect of our group — no matter what may be 
the distance in cosmic lines — from that of the second 
attracting body, or Q, whose line of rotation in the 
group is represented in Figure 19 by the vertical 
line st. In the diagram st is drawn parallel to hk, 
yet we know that throughout its course it must be 
as different from it as it is possible for one simple 
spiral line to be different from another. That is to 
say, the two lines are opposites. The succession 
of rotary modifications in any centre-change along 
the line st will be the reverse of that along the line 
hk; it will be that succession which would be fol- 
lowed by the P influence if this was a repellent in- 
stead of an attractive influence. Hence the rotary 
modifications proceeding from Q must always be 
the opposite in both a and d of those proceeding 
from P. And, the velocity of migrants being of 
necessity so vastly superior to the highest possible 
rotary velocity that the difference between these 
velocities must be left out of account in the consider- 
ation of any group or league of groups of a size and 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 227 

mass conceivable (in view of Figs. 14 and 16) in 
the cosmon, the modifications from either P or Q 
must at any given moment find a and d at opposite 
stages of their uniform primary rotation. 

It is readily to be seen that, if these two rotations 
have the same velocity, neither can have any effect 
upon any motions in spiral lines either inside or 
outside the group. Each modification along the line 
hk will be offset by an opposite modification along 
the same line (i.e. st), and the group's position for 
responding to any vibratory waves or to any attrac- 
tive migrants from any source whatsoever cannot be 
altered at any stage of the rotation, a's primary 
rotation will continue to be always before or behind 
cPs by the space of half a rotation of either. But 
a and d, while rotating solely with reference to the 
average row, were unable either to move in spiral 
lines or to generate vibratory waves. When their 
primary rotations are thus modified from without 
by equal and opposite influences, there can therefore 
be no successive differences in their rotary positions 
possessing implications in spiral motions. 

But if one of the attractive influences — say P's — 
is stronger than the other, the secondary rotation 
along the line hk will be quicker than that along the 
line st, and a resultant rotation will be derived 
which will always be the same in character though 
varying in velocity with the degree of inequality 
of the strengths of P and Q. 



228 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

For it is obvious that the resultant rotation can- 
not take place along a simple spiral line. Opposing 
modifications from Q are always present in the simple 
line, st or hk, and they must at all times render this 
an impossible line of rotation unless P's strength 

2 U 
is more than — times as great as Q's — which is 

manifestly impossible. On the other hand, the 

rotation cannot take place along any other of the — 

simple spirals, for P's modifications always arrive 
in the line hk. If st was not the direct opposite of 
hk, the rotation might conceivably take place in part 
along simple spirals, because there might then be in- 
tervals during which none of Q's original or deflected 
modifications were present in the line hk or in other 
simple lines then being visited by P's deflected 
modifications. But, P and Q being opposite, their 
reciprocally caused deflexions must always preserve 
the opposition between them; and the line of the 
resultant rotation must swerve continuously from 
successive simple spirals and, after a sufficient num- 
ber of such swervings, return upon itself. And, if 
the group is not to be disrupted, each swerving from 
the lateral direction st must be in the direction of the 
average row of the group. 

If P is repelling our group while Q is attracting it, 
the repellent and attractive influences will coincide 
along the line st, and the rotation will in consequence 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 229 

be more rapid ; but it will still be a resultant rotation 
in a continuously bent spiral line, for P could not 
repel the group without at the same time attracting 
it. 

In any such resultant rotation the particular 
simple spirals swerved from would of course depend 
upon the character of the simple lines, as hk and st, 
involved. 

We have now to find the simple spiral line with 
reference to which the consequences to any spiral 
motions in the cosmon of this rotation resulting 
from the conflict between the P and Q influences 
may be apprehended. It is obvious that this line 
can be neither hk nor st. The absolute velocity of 
the P rotation must of course be regarded from the 
point of view of the line st; that of the Q rotation, 
from the point of view of hk. But neither of these 
absolute velocities possesses any implications in 
spiral motions ; for, no matter how high or how low 
it may be, it must either exert no gravitational or 
vibratory influence whatever, or else it must repre- 
sent an influence greater or less than is actually 
being exerted. Hence our resultant rotation must 
take place around a simple spiral line equally 
different from hk and st. In the diagram the line 
yz has been drawn to represent this line or axis upon 
which the resultant rotation takes place. The char- 
acter of yz will presently be further enquired into. 
Meanwhile we should ascertain what consequences 



230 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

are inevitable to the members, a and d, of such a 
resultant rotation taking place within their group. 

We have assumed our group to have had no earlier 
experience of outside influences — never to have had 
a rotary position anterior to those established by P 
and Q. Let us suppose that, at the outset of the 
resultant rotation under consideration, the earliest 
modifications of a's primary rotation by the resultant 
influence bring a into a rotary position in respect of 
P — or of any other body similarly placed — 
midway between those two positions, later to be 
occupied, in either of which any influences pro- 
ceeding from P — or from the similarly placed body 
— are as different as possible from those reaching a 
while in the other position. This difference, let us 
say, will be one of strength in any migratory or 
vibratory inducement from P or other similarly 
placed bodies. We know that such differences 
must be created by the resultant rotation, and we 
shall presently try to discover wherein their im- 
portance lies. 

If a's primary rotation had reached that stage in 
which the earliest modifications brought a into this 
mean position in respect of P, d must at the same 
moment be brought into an extreme position in 
respect of P, because its primary rotation is at any 
time at an opposite stage to that of a. (By extremes 
will of course be understood the greatest differences 
compatible with the size and mass of the group.) 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 231 

d will then occupy the mean position in respect of Q, 
the opposite of P. 

Hence it is clear that, at the end of half a resultant 
rotation, a will occupy a rotary position in respect 
of P as different as possible from its former position ; 
i.e. it will occupy the extreme position abandoned 
by d at the outset of the rotation. It cannot, then, 
occupy a position in respect of Q as different as 
possible from its original position which was one of 
the extremes; nor can it have passed through this 
position on the way, for it was then always nearer 
to its original position. Since Q is the opposite of 
P, it seems that a must make another half rotation 
before reaching the position most different, in respect 
of Q, from its original position. 

This position sought by a must meanwhile have 
been reached by d, for a is about to follow in d's 
tracks. It must therefore be d's greatest divergence 
from its own former position in respect of Q. Hence 
it cannot be d's greatest divergence from its former 
position in respect of P; another half rotation will 
bring d to this position, d's first half rotation must, 
however, bring it into the same position in respect 
of P that was originally occupied by a. 

At the end of one complete secondary rotation of 
both a and d, a will be as far as possible from its 
original position in respect of Q, but will have 
returned to its original mean position in respect of P. 

d's positions will be similar, only with P and Q 
interchanged. 



232 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

At the end of one and a half rotations of both a and 
d, a will again be as far as possible from its original 
position in respect of P; i.e. it will have reached 
the extreme in respect of P opposite to that extreme 
occupied at the end of the first half rotation. In 
respect of Q it will be again in the mean position and 
nearer by half to its original extreme position than it 
was one half rotation back. 

d's positions will be the same as a% only with P 
and Q interchanged. 

At the end of two complete rotations both a and 
d will have returned to their original positions in 
respect of both P and Q. 

It is seen that in the space of these two complete 
rotations a and d have each occupied a mean and two 
different extreme positions in respect of both P and 
Q, — (a's mean in respect of P and d's in respect of 
Q being at the beginning and end of the rotations, 
and the extremes being reached at the middle points 
of the rotations), — and that if, for any reason, the 
group is at any time disrupted, the positions deter- 
mining either a's or d's response to any gravita- 
tional or vibratory inducement whatsoever will be, 
not their positions in cosmic rows, but these new 
rotary positions established by the influence of P 
and Q. 

If Q's influence had been stronger than P's, the 
rotation would have been the same in character, but 
its order would have been reversed ; i.e. at the end 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 233 

of the first half rotation, d would have occupied a's 
original positions, and a would have occupied the 
extreme in respect of P opposite to that occupied 
by it during the reverse rotation. 

From our review of these rotations we derive the 
following general statements : 

In the rotation of any stable group in response to 
influences of unequal strengths and opposite direc- 
tions, each member will occupy at the end of 1, 3, 5, 
etc., complete secondary rotations the same rotary 
position that was occupied by the corresponding 
member in the opposite half of the group one half 
rotation earlier; and at the end of 2, 4, 6, etc., 
rotations, it will occupy its original position. At the 
end of J, 2J, 4J, etc., rotations, and at the end of 1J, 
3 J, 5 J, etc., rotations it will occupy positions again 
opposite to one another, and as different as possible 
from the two other named sets of positions. It 
will never occupy a position nearer to or farther 
from the average row than its original position, and 
it will always bear the same relation to the axis of 
rotation. 

Hence it would seem that if we might regard a 
stable group as a disruptible body, not constrained 
by its internal organisation to respond as a unit to all 
attractive and vibratory inducements, any conse- 
quences of a rotation, such as described, to indi- 
vidual members of the group might be greater in 
proportion to the squares of the doubles of their 



234 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

distances in cosmic lines from the average row. 
We shall presently see that this statement must be 
modified. 

The axis yz, a simple spiral line equally different 
from hk and st, was found to be necessary for the 
apprehension of this rotation which resulted from the 
excess in velocity of one of two contemporaneous and 
opposite rotations over the other. But this axis may 
itself be the line of rotation of a third attracting 
body, as R, capable of setting up a new rotation in 
the group. And if the influences of R and of another 
body having a rotary position as different from P's 
as possible (in respect of our group) are of unequal 
strength, a resultant rotation will take place in the 
group upon an axis different from yz. Now, if yz 
is equally different from hk and st, P's rotary posi- 
tion is of course equally different from P's and Q's. 
If the rotary position of R's opposite is likewise 
equally different, or in any way different, from P's 
and Q's, the implication of the axis of the new excess 
rotation and of the axes of a third, a fourth, a fifth, 
etc., such rotations necessarily to be derived from 
the existence of the axis yz, will be that every sim- 
ple spiral line is as different as possible from every 
other such line, and hence that no cosmic line may be 
distinguished from another ; which is contrary to our 
symbolical assumption. According to this assump- 
tion P, Q, and R must therefore be equally opposite 
to one another in their positions in respect of our 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 235 

group and to no fourth body; any rotation occa- 
sioned by the inequality of P and R will take place 
upon the axis st; and any rotation occasioned by 
the inequality of Q and R will take place upon the 
axis hk. 

The group will contain — - sets of similarly 

o D 

opposite axes ; and during rotation upon any one or 

more of these axes the relation of all fixed bodies 

outside of the group to the average row within the 

group will remain the same. 

If the group is rotating upon the axis yz\ and if, 
at the moment when d is in the mean position in 
respect of Q and in an extreme position in respect 
of both P and R — when, consequently, a is in the 
mean position in respect of P and in an extreme in 
respect of both Q and R — Q's influence is with- 
drawn and its consequences destroyed while unequal 
inducements from P and R set the group rotating 
upon the axis st, the character of this rotation must 
be the same as that of the rotation upon the axis 
yz, — yet it is obvious that the changes of position 
of every member of the group will be different in 
their sum and in any portion thereof. 

Since Q is equally opposite from P and R, and 
since no inducement is being received from it, there 
can be no change in respect of Q along secondary ro- 
tary or spiral lines, d must in this respect main- 
tain its mean position, a an extreme position, and 



236 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

other members the appropriate intermediate posi- 
tions, even as in the rotation upon the axis yz, when 
every member bore a constant relation to this axis 
and to R. Each member must always be in the same 
position for responding to any subsequent attractive 
or vibratory inducement from Q, although it may 
be in successively different positions for modifying 
Q's inducements for the benefit of other bodies. In 
this rotation upon st, a will, at the end of one half 
rotation, reach an extreme position in respect of P 
and the mean in respect of R; a whole rotation 
will find it in the mean in respect of P and in the 
opposite extreme in respect of R) midway on the 
second rotation it will reach the opposite extreme 
in respect of P and the mean in respect of R ; after 
two complete rotations it is home again. At every 
stage of the rotation it will be in the same extreme 
position in respect of Q. 

But d's rotation in response to the resultant 
inducement can make no difference in its position in 
respect of any one or all inducements now being 
offered in spiral lines. It occupies at the outset an 
extreme position in respect of both P and R; and 
since P and R are opposites, any motion towards the 
mean in respect of the one must imply a change, 
in respect of the other, either in the direction of the 
mean or toward a new extreme greater than is com- 
patible with the size of the group; therefore d can 
make no change of position. If the mass of the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 237 

group is sufficiently great, there will be other members 
besides d occupying mean positions in respect of Q ; 
in such members any rotation due to the inequality 
of P and R will persistently destroy its own conse- 
quences, and these members will undergo no change 
possessing implications in any spiral motions. 

If, at the moment when d is in the mean position 
in respect of P and in an extreme in respect of both 
Q and R — when, consequently, a is in the mean 
position in respect of Q and in an extreme in respect 
of both P and R, — rotation begins upon the axis st ; 
d will experience the maximum influence of the rota- 
tion, whilst a and any other members occupying, at 
the outset of the rotation, mean positions in respect 
of Q will undergo no change of position. 

Any rotation set up in the group by Q and R 
upon the axis hk will entail similar consequences to a 
and d according to their positions at the moment 
when the rotation is begun. 

If, as we have assumed to be the case, a or d or 
both experienced the maximum influence of rotations 
upon the axes yz, st, and hk, they could neither of 
them experience this maximum influence of a rota- 
tion upon any other axis. The maximum influence 
must then be experienced, if at all, by members 
nearer to the average row. 

It is readily to be seen that the number of second- 
ary rotary positions occupied by any member of a 
group during any given resultant rotation must be 



238 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

2 U 

very much less than — — , — the number of primary 

rotary positions it occupies with regard to the 
average row. (Cf. page 190.) For example, during 
the rotation upon st, as reviewed above, a might not 
occupy any of those positions occupied by d and 
similarly placed members, although it might occupy 
such positions during rotations upon other axes. 
And the same thing would be true of those similar 
rotations, or revolutions, described on pages 209 et 
seq. The various kinds of bent spiral lines of rota- 
tion and revolution will not be reviewed in detail, 
although the character of a certain one amongst such 
lines will appear in the course of a consideration 
presently to be undertaken. 

During simultaneous rotations upon more than one 
axis no member of the group could fail to undergo 
changes of position ; on the other hand, no member 
would ever occupy the extremes of position other- 
wise possible within the group. The intervals at 
which members would return to their original 
positions would depend upon the relations between 
the axes and between the velocities of rotation. 

It is now clear that only in respect of cosmic rows 
are a and d the two outermost members of our group. 
In respect of any motions in spiral lines there may 

be an indefinite number (up to —=- ) of outermost 
members equidistant from the centre; and the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 239 

number of such outermost members as well as the 
number of inner members must depend upon the 
mass — i.e. the arrangement — of the group. And 
though, in respect of cosmic rows, a and d are the 
polar members of all axes, each may be a polar 
member of but one apparent axis, — i.e. of an axis 
that may possess any significance in spiral motions. 
If we would find the outermost members of a group 
in respect of cosmic rows, we must know the history 
of all the influences to which this group has ever 
been subjected. 

If, of any two conflicting influences to which a 
group is being subjected, the one is intermittent 
whilst the other is persistent, or if the stronger in- 
fluence is alternately a pull and a push, it may be 
that complete rotation will never occur, but that a 
rotary vibration will be set up in the group. Such 
vibrations will not be considered in this enquiry, 
although the importance of their influence upon 
another class of rotary vibrations later to be men- 
tioned will be obvious. 

If, of two influences to which a group has been 
subjected, either or both are withdrawn, the rotation 
set up by them will, if not checked by some third 
influence or combination of influences, be prolonged, 
even as will a vibration, for a period whose length 
will be as the mass of the group and as the original 
velocity of rotation. 

A league of groups or of associations of groups 



240 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

must contain more than one average row, and each 
centre-change contained within it must have different 
sets of primary rotation : one in respect of its group ; 
another in respect of any association in which its 
group may be participating ; a third in respect of the 
league as a whole. At any given moment the stages 
reached in each of these rotations will of course be 
opposite in opposite halves of the group, association, 
or league. Remembering the necessarily vast superi- 
ority in lateral distances within any centre-change 
over the length in cosmic lines of any league of 
groups that might have the slightest cohesion, we 
must recognise that any group within such a league 
might have a very great number of different pri- 
mary rotations and still be able to rotate secondarily 
upon an axis. And of all the various rotations con- 
ceivable within any league of groups those possess- 
ing the most important consequences to all its com- 
ponent groups and their individual members will be 
rotations of the league as a whole ; for in these rota- 
tions will the groups and their members make their 
widest divergences from any given positions. It is 
to be remembered that no league could long survive 
in which the secondary rotary velocities were not 
equalised by compensation, but that no need would 
exist of — rather would a distinct disadvantage lie 
in — an equalisation of vibratory velocities. All 
vibrations must, then, be the affair of the compo- 
nent groups and associations, as might likewise be 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 241 

certain rotations; but the most important rotations 
of all would be the affair of the league as a whole. 

A survey of the different kinds of leagues that 
might conceivably be formed at different times in 
the symbolical cosmon is neither within the scope 
of this enquiry nor within the powers of its con- 
ductor. But the obvious probability of formation, 
under certain circumstances, of a certain kind of 
body should be mentioned. 

If at any time a very large number of groups 
existed in any portion of the cosmon, remaining 
for a considerable period subject to reciprocal pushes 
and pulls of a not very complexly conflicting nature, 
they would tend to gather together — no matter 
whether approaching one another in cosmic lines or 
simply in changing rotary positions — in a single 
league whose extent was less than that of the sum 
of the unattached groups. This process must ob- 
viously be accompanied by an increasing amplitude 
of vibration of the individual groups and probably 
by an increasing velocity of rotation of the league 
as a whole. The consequent menaces of disruption 
of the league even while it is in process of formation 
would doubtless result in giving to the league an 
organisation under which its outer groups would be 
separated by greater distances than its inner groups 
in proportion to the squares of their distances from 
the average row. (Cf . page 223.) This organisation 
embodies the maximum response to the mutual 



242 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

attraction of groups compatible with the necessary 
concession to the disruptive tendency imposed by 
the increasing velocities of rotation or of vibration 
or of both: it implies, moreover, the least possible 
number of outermost members in proportion to the 
number of inner members. Such a body seems the 
most obvious league of stable groups to be formed 
in a cosmon in which the conflicting pushes and 
pulls were comparatively simple, — in which, i.e., 
the experience of individual cosmoids was not yet 
so great as to prompt them, under certain circum- 
stances, to behave in a highly irregular manner look- 
ing to remote benefits. Whether such a body would, 
without further incident, settle down into a stable 
form and gradually part with more and more of its 
rotary and vibratory velocity as its field gradually 
sought the simplest form, or whether it would at 
certain junctures be forced to part with whole 
sections of its mass, would depend upon many cir- 
cumstances of its origin and situation which will 
not be considered in this enquiry. Here we need only 
recognise that such a body seems in all respects 
similar to the spherical bodies that people our 
apparent heavens. And its resultant rotation upon 
a single axis seems equivalent in all its stages to the 
similar rotation of a cooling body such as the Earth. 
Leaving out of account all other motions of the 
Earth as well as the inclination of its axis, a de- 
scription of its rotation in symbolical one-dimension 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 243 

terms may readily be compassed with the aid of a 
tennis-ball. 

Draw a line around the tennis-ball to represent the 
Earth's equator, and stick three pins in the ball, 
one each at the North Pole, the point in the equator 
of longitude 0°, and the point in the equator of 
longitude 90° E. 

Figure 19 may be used collaterally to represent the 
Earth as a league of stable groups. 

Let the heads of the three pins in the order named 
represent the rotary positions, in respect of the 
Earth, corresponding to three influences, R, P, and 
Q respectively, which may conceivably set up 
rotations in the Earth. Let P's pin-hole (longitude 
0°) be a (Fig. 19), and Q's pin-hole (longitude 
90° E.) be d. 

Let the Earth be supposed to be rotating upon 
the axis yz in response to any resultant influence 
of P's and Q's in which P's influence is the stronger 
and is attractive whilst Q's is either attractive or 
repellent. Q's influence may be left out of account 
in this example. 

The Earth being at rest in cosmic rows, P's in- 
fluence is not exerted in the direction of the average 
row of the league, but is a lateral influence. Upon 
any given axis it must be one of but two opposite 
lateral influences, the attractive and the repellent. 
Since all portions of the Earth must, during the 
rotation upon yz, maintain constant positions in 



244 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

respect of R, P's attractive and repellent influences 
may not be exerted north and south from a. Since 
P is the opposite of R, its influence must then be 
exerted east or west from a. 

Let P's attractive influence be represented by an 
imaginary arrow perpendicular to the pin and point- 
ing east. 

No matter what P may be nor whether its migrants 
are still reaching the Earth, let the Sun be supposed 
to occupy a like rotary position to that represented 
in P's attractive influence. The Sun's rays reaching 
any portion of the Earth at any time will, then, be 
travelling in the direction indicated by the arrow 
representing the direction in which P's attractive 
influence is being exerted. 

Withdraw the P and Q pins, but keep them and 
the imaginary arrow in their original positions in 
respect of the ball. By means of the R pin set the 
ball rotating from west to east. 

At the outset of the rotation the Sun will be 
setting at a, which is occupying the mean position 
in respect of P. a is on its way to that extreme 
position in respect of P where P's attractive influence 
may reach it only after passing through as many cen- 
tre-changes as are contained in an apparent diam- 
eter or axis of the league. More strictly speaking, 
its rotary position at that extreme must, by virtue 
of the league's organisation, be the precise equivalent 
of a member or group which had, one half rotation 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 245 

back, been receiving P's attractive influence thus 
indirectly. Its response to the attractive influence 
will be the same as before, provided the league does 
not suddenly break up, because the rotary velocities 
involved are always equalised throughout the 
league. But since vibratory velocities are left to 
differ among themselves throughout the league, a's 
response to the Sun's rays will be the minimum in 
the league when it reaches the position occupied at 
the outset by d. 

At the outset of the rotation it is, then, midnight 
at d. 

At the end of one half rotation — i.e. one quarter 
rotation of the tennis-ball — it will be midnight at 
a } and the Sun will be rising at d. 

At the end of a complete rotation — i.e. one half 
rotation of the ball — a will reach the mean in re- 
spect of P, and d will reach the opposite extreme. 
At a the Sun will be rising ; at d it will be midday. 

At this point an imaginary arrow representing 
P's influence at a would still point east — i.e. in a 
direction apparently opposite to that in which it 
pointed at the outset of the rotation — because P's 
influence, being constantly attractive, can at no 
time cause a to retrace its steps. But the moment 
before this point was reached, a could receive the 
influence of the Sun's rays only through a portion of 
the Earth lying to the eastward of a; and a is now 
travelling towards the extreme in respect of P op- 



246 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

posite to that which it was approaching during the 
first half rotation ; hence the Sun's rays will at this 
point have an apparently opposite or westerly 
direction at a. 

At the end of one and a half rotations it will be 
midday at a, and the Sun will be setting at d. 

Two complete rotations (or one rotation of the 
tennis-ball) will find a and d in their original po- 
sitions. 

Another example: 

Let the rotation be the same as before, but let 
the Sun occupy the rotary position represented in 
P's repellent influence which, by assumption, is not 
being exerted upon the Earth. The direction in 
which the Sun's rays would travel must then be 
indicated by a second imaginary arrow also per- 
pendicular to P's pin, but pointing west instead of 
east. At the outset of the rotation the Sun would 
rise at a, and it would be midday at d; and at the 
end of one half rotation — or one quarter rotation 
of the tennis-ball — it would be midday at a and the 
Sun would set at d. 

Again, if rotation upon the axis yz cease while a 
is occupying the mean position in respect of P and 
its original extreme in respect of Q, and a new 
rotation begin upon the axis st, the opposite direc- 
tions of P's attractive and repellent influences are 
changed because all portions of the Earth must 
maintain constant positions in respect of Q. The 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 247 

arrow indicating the direction of P's influence must 
then point either north or south from a; and R's 
arrow will point in the opposite direction. 

If rotation take place upon the axis hk beginning 
while a is in its original position; and if the Sun's 
rotary position coincide with that represented in 
P's attractive influence (now removed), — at d it 
will be successively midnight, sunrise, midday, 
sunset, as before ; but at a the Sun will always be on 
the horizon. If P's influence now begins again to 
be felt, it must be both an easterly (or westerly) 
and northerly (or southerly) influence because the 
Earth is already subject to the influences of both Q 
and R. Hence the rotary position of the Sun, by 
assumption an independent body, could not have 
coincided with the position represented in the re- 
vival of P's influence ; it coincided with the position 
represented in P's attractive influence when there 
was no rotation upon the axis hk. And the revival 
of P's mixed influence will find any given group in 
the same position for responding to it, independently 
of the stage of the rotation upon hk reached at the 
moment of such revival. 

It is obvious that resultant rotations — i.e. 
rotations possessing implications in any spiral 
motions — could not take place simultaneously 
upon more than two axes. Simultaneous rotations 
upon three axes would tend to bring different portions 
of the body towards the same means or extremes. 



248 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

If they were opposite axes, one rotation would be 
lost; otherwise rotations would take place upon 
two resultant axes. 

In simultaneous rotations upon two axes the axes 
would not pass through the same groups at different 
stages of the rotations, but would revolve one about 
the other. 

Simultaneous rotations upon more than one axis 
and upon axes not opposite to one another will not 
be reviewed in these pages; the simple rotations 
reviewed above seem sufficient as illustrations of the 
principles underlying all kinds of rotations of leagues 
of stable groups. 

The Earth, as we know, has other motions in ad- 
dition to the rotation upon its axis. Certain of these 
motions will presently be considered from the one- 
dimensional point of view. Meanwhile we may 
complete our review of the elimination of vibratory 
waves. 

In a cosmon certain portions of which were thickly 
inhabited by groups of different mass, associated and 
leagued together in various ways and exerting va- 
rious influences upon one another at the same time, 
the process of transmission of vibratory waves must 
contain certain features that were not considered 
in our preliminary review of the subject. The im- 
plications of these additional features are necessarily 
so varied that a comprehensive survey of them would 
lie beyond the scope of this essay. A few of the 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 249 

more obvious ones should, however, be mentioned. 
For this purpose we may again use Figure 16, sup- 
posing a, b, c, and d to be vibrating groups 
separated by distances in cosmic lines indefinitely 
great, though relatively such as are indicated in the 
diagram. 

In the first place, a's and 6's rotary positions will 
be supposed to have been established by c alone. 
If b and c have the same mass, a will under no cir- 
cumstances respond to c's wave, since (in their 
original positions at (1)) a is connected with b by 
49 fines of supply to every 9 lines by which it is 
connected with c. But, if the ratio of c's mass to 
6's is greater than 49 : 9, and if the distances between 
the three groups are still as at (1), it would seem that 
a would respond solely to c, and that, if b moved 
indefinitely between the two, a would respond first 
to the one and then to the other, but never to both 
at the same time. 

Such would be the case if vibrating groups of 
different mass produced waves of the same length. 
And the above description would indeed be suitable 
if c, instead of being a group of greater mass than 
b's was an association or league of groups having all 
the same mass as b's, for the waves from an associa- 
tion must pass through every centre-change in the 
association and must therefore have the same length 
if all groups in the association have the same mass. 

But if b and c are of different mass, the coinci- 



250 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

dence of waves must at any time be only partial, 
and a will at all times respond to some extent to 
both b and c. The ratio of the number of coinciding 
modifications to the number of separate pairs of 
modifications would depend upon the number of 
lines of supply involved; it would vary with the 
square of the distance. 

That is to say, if b moves nearer to a, the increase 
in the number of lines of supply connecting a with 
b and the corresponding decrease in the number of 
lines connecting c with b will result in increased 
elimination in a of c's modifications by coincidence 
with 6's in proportion to twice the square of the 
distance moved by b } although the number of lines 
connecting a with c will be the same as before. 

If a moves towards b, the elimination will increase 
with the square of the distance moved, since the 
increase in lines connecting a with b will be greater 
than the increase in lines connecting a with c in 
proportion to the square of the distance moved by a. 

If b moves towards c, the elimination will decrease 
in proportion to twice the square of the distance 
moved. 

If c moves towards b, it will decrease in proportion 
to the square of the distance moved. 

But distance is only one of the most obvious de- 
terminants of the elimination of vibratory waves by 
coincidence. In a cosmon in which the stable groups 
were similar in number, arrangement, and variety 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 251 

of mass to the atoms of our actual apparent universe, 
the elimination by b of certain modifications from c 
might be either so great or so small that the influence 
of distance, though omnipresent and regular in its 
operation would within certain limits be insignificant 
in proportion to the whole amount of modifications 
involved. For elimination would depend at any 
time not only upon the mass of individual groups, 
the distances between them, and the number and 
character of the pushes and pulls to which they were 
at that time subjected, but also upon the character 
of their associations and the manner in which these 
associations were banded together, as well as upon 
certain other conditions which need not here be con- 
sidered. 

Thus, if d (Fig. 16) was a body governing c's 
and b's positions and was the source of vibratory 
waves of different length, c might conceivably elimi- 
nate but few of a certain set of waves of which b 
would eliminate nearly all that remained of this set, 
although another set of waves might find no re- 
sponse in b owing to c's interference or because b's 
mass was such that under any circumstances its 
responses to these waves would be mutually destruc- 
tive. If a occupied a rotary position different from 
b's and c's, it would respond to all appropriate waves 
from d, and might cause in & a responsive vibration 
to certain of d's waves which had been eliminated 
by c. It might similarly reflect d's waves for the 



252 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

benefit of a body which lay beyond the limits of the 
diagram and which might not respond directly to 
d's waves because of the interference of either c or b. 

Whatever the masses involved, elimination would 
of course be greater if the number of eliminating 
bodies was greater. 

And of various sets of waves emanating from any 
given body, as a, and passing through another 
variously vibrating body, as 6, the longer waves 
representing the slower vibration of lighter groups 
would be eliminated in greater degree than the 
shorter or longer waves representing the more rapid 
vibration of heavier groups, because in their passage 
through any variously vibrating centre- change their 
component modifications would be fewer and sepa- 
rated by relatively greater distances and would in 
consequence be more exposed to complete elimi- 
nation by the denser and more numerous waves 
emanating from heavier groups. 

Considering the very great conceivable differences 
in wave lengths it seems likely that their effects 
upon groups would be widely different; and that a 
body having many rapid vibratory rates might 
entirely eliminate longer waves representing a great 
amplitude of vibration without itself acquiring more 
than a comparatively slight amplitude of vibration 
in response to these longer waves. 

From this general review of vibrations arising 
from the reciprocal menace of stable groups ap- 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 253 

proaching one another in spiral lines (or in spiral 
changes of rotary position) it seems not improbable 
that the consequent modifications of lines of supply 
should give rise, like the ether waves of our experi- 
mental knowledge, to the various phenomena known 
as heat, light, chemism. 

That another class of modifying waves must in- 
evitably be present in the cosmon has already been 
suggested. Modifications similar in character to 
those considered above, though different in velocity, 
would undoubtedly have arisen if the members of 
the groups involved had in the first place been 
normally at rest with reference to one another in- 
stead of presenting successively their — - different 

aspects to the cosmic row of average distance. This 
primary rotation of members implies a second set of 
vibrations, rotary in character, from which the re- 
sultant modifications would be governed, as to 
velocity and numerical value at a distance, by the 
same laws that governed the linear modifications. 
In associated groups vibrating within one another's 
fields, the members would, then, have the following 
different rotary motions imposed one upon the 
other: (1) the motion pertaining to the group; (2) 
the motion pertaining to the association; (3) the 
motion imposed by attractive migrants travelling 
in long spiral lines; (4) the rhythmical vibration 



254 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

in spiral lines or in spiral changes of rotary position ; 
(5) the rhythmical rotary vibration imposed by the 
proximity of the rotating members of other groups. 
It is obvious that these last-named vibrations must 
be as various in character as are the sum of existing 
groups and the conditions of their existence. That 
they must at times be the occasion of the formation 
or disruption of associations, of the mutual attrac- 
tion or repulsion of groups, and of spirally linear 
vibrations in groups ; that they must at other times 
be themselves set up by the linear vibrations: 
all these statements seem naturally to be derived 
from our examination of the character of the stable 
groups. No review of the implications of these 
vibrations will be attempted in these pages. It is 
here sufficient to point out their probable similarity 
to those waves productive of the observed phenom- 
ena of electricity and magnetism. 

But one more probability will be considered in 
connexion with the one-dimension universe. In any 
region of the cosmon in which stable groups existed 
in any considerable number, a considerable degree 
of closeness in their relations in the cosmon would 
doubtless be established in the interest of variety 
in these relations. If we recur to our considerations 
in connexion with Figure 16 (page 163 et seq.), we 
must surmise that if, from a portion of this thickly 
settled region of the cosmon, a considerable number 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 255 

of groups were forcibly abstracted, a tension would 
at once be created in other portions of the same 
region. And when the abstracting force was re- 
moved, the depopulated district would straight- 
way become inhabited again, very much as before. 
One-dimensional nature would probably abhor a 
vacuum. 

It would seem that we had now sufficient material 
in the form of statements bearing different degrees 
of probability to warrant a guess as to the signifi- 
cance of our one-dimension universe and the sym- 
bols we have used in treating of it. My guess is 
twofold, as follows: 

(1) If the one-dimension universe should produce 
human beings living, thinking, seeing, feeling, in 
the partial, evolutionary way that is ours, the stable 
groups and their implications above considered 
would, at some period in the existence of such a 
human race, be appropriate and useful symbols of 
that ultimate process which was not then discussable 
as such. In other words, the cosmon which dies in 
giving birth to a new cosmon that is different from 
the old by virtue of this death and birth, would 
sooner or later produce a cosmon which was partially 
apprehensible to contemporaneous beings like our- 
selves in its suggestive apparent forms of free 
rovers, centre-changes, stable groups, etc. 

(2) For more immediate and practical purposes, 



256 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the stable group would be described by these same 
human beings as an atom of matter; and the other 
symbols of the one-dimension universe which have 
been used in the above investigation would be 
described in the manners already indicated in the 
course of this investigation. 

The grounds of this twofold guess have, for the 
most part, been reviewed only in their general aspect, 
yet in a manner perhaps as thorough as was com- 
patible with the necessarily unscientific point of 
view of the reviewer. Such small amount of detailed 
investigation as has been recorded in this chapter 
was undertaken largely in deference to the point 
of view of others. To the writer any mechanical 
account of, say, gravitation possesses far less interest 
and far less semblance of stability than those con- 
siderations, vague, incapable of any but the clumsi- 
est expression in words, and correspondingly more 
convincing, which bear upon the relation between 
KT and K 1. Before enquiring, however, into the 
possible effect of these considerations upon our 
thought of the more immediate future, we should 
extend our examination of probabilities in respect 
of two significant problems of the symbolical one- 
dimension universe. First let us consider 

The implications of motions of stable groups or 
leagues of them through the cosmon in spiral lines, 
whether simple or bent. 

We are at no time to be betrayed into thinking 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 257 

that our discussion of Figures 15-18 (page 163 
et seq.) has been productive of any hard-and-fast 
conception of the symbolical cosmon. Indeed, if 
anybody were to take these diagrams and give me 
a satisfactory account of the spatial necessity im- 
plied in them, he would thereby convince me that 
the symbols they illustrated had lost whatever use- 
fulness they might have possessed in interpreting 
ultimate cosmical change. Any symbols of reality 
invented by us on the hither side of KT are neces- 
sarily incomplete, faulty; and the obvious margin 
of error, provided it be not too wide — provided it 
be narrower than that belonging to earlier symbols 
— is the index of their usefulness. Hence a sym- 
bolical necessity may, under no circumstances, be 
completely accounted for. If our symbolical cosmon 
is a symbol suited to our position in time (i.e. to 
our experience), any subsequent modifications of it 
productive of a sufficient narrowing of its obvious 
margin of error would mean that the modifying 
agent was no longer living in that material, geo- 
metrical universe whose phenomena had suggested 
this symbol. 

Now, any person living upon Earth to-day who 
wishes to use this symbol will doubtless recognise 
that a centre-change must, from its own point of 
view, be the limit or centre of the cosmon; and 
that, from the point of view of the whole cosmon, 
each centre-change must occupy as many different 



258 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

positions as there are other centre-changes in the 
cosmon. While using the symbol in question, he 
can in no way escape from this necessity of which 
he may, likely enough, give a better account than 
is contained in these pages although he may never, 
beyond a certain point, add to its definiteness while 
he continues to live a material, geometrical life. 
In approaching the problem under consideration, 
this necessity must be kept always before us. 

Likewise to be kept before us is the necessity, often 
referred to, that the lateral distances in any centre- 
change — i.e. the number of different modifications 
of changes possible within it — must be vastly 
greater than the length in cosmic lines of any pos- 
sible league of stable groups (i.e. the number of 
changes of position of a migrant travelling from one 
end of the league to the other). 

Finally a third necessity, often referred to and now 
to be kept before us, is that any stable group or 
league of them keeping to the same position in 
cosmic rows and undergoing the appropriate rotary 
changes — the successive rotations of each centre- 
change following a spiral line that involves succes- 
sively the least possible differences in all adjacencies 
— must respond spirally to all migratory and vi- 
bratory inducements in precisely the same manner 
as if it were travelling in a spiral line through suc- 
cessive cosmic rows. 

From these three necessities we must draw one 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 259 

of two conclusions respecting spiral motions in the 
symbolical cosmon. 

(1) Considerable changes of position in cosmic rows 
may take place only at a comparatively early stage 
of the cosmic life when centre-changes are compara- 
tively few in number. With increasingly frequent 
formation of centre-changes, and with their banding 
together in stable groups and leagues of groups 
numerically comparable in any given portion of the 
cosmon to those contained within the bodies that 
people our apparent heavens, such changes of posi- 
tion could rarely, if ever, occur. 

(2) The growing restrictions upon the process of 
free-roving are uniform in all portions of the cosmon ; 
and, at a certain stage of the cosmic life, the maximum 
number of centre-changes are formed simultaneously, 
the number of cosmic rows separating any two 
centre-changes equalling the number of other 
existent centre-changes. Successive disruptions of 
centre-changes — owing to inefficiency of the earlier 
systems of supply — leading to the eventual estab- 
lishment of the system B, Figure 14, will then always 
take place in the same cosmic rows. Henceforth 
the effects of the reciprocal influences of centre- 
changes are always purely an affair of internal rotary 
modifications, since they could never move from the 
cosmic rows in which they were formed. And the 
first differences in the mass of stable groups will 
arise from the concerted action of two or more 
groups of like mass. 



260 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

The degree of probability of (2) is so vastly and 
obviously superior to that of (1) as to require no 
detailed discussion. 

According to (2) it is readily to be seen that, in 
respect of all spiral motions, any number of centre- 

2 U 

changes up to — - might be equidistant from any 

given centre-change, as a; and any one of these 
centre-changes might, in this respect, move alter- 
nately towards a and away from it without endanger- 
ing its own existence or that of any of the other 
centre-changes. 

If the Sun, Earth, and Moon be leagues of stable 
groups, only a complete history of their antecedents 
would enable us to determine the positions in cosmic 
rows of their component centre-changes. 

If the Earth were detached from the Sun when 
the rotary and vibratory velocities of their compo- 
nent stable groups had risen beyond the point at 
which so many groups might share a single average 
row, the Earth, without changing its position in 
cosmic rows, would doubtless eventually settle down 
into two distinct rotations : the one — upon its 
own axis, and with reference to which the new aver- 
age row remained fixed — derived from the original 
rotation of the joint league upon its axis; the other 
— upon an axis shared by the separate bodies — 
established by the conflict between the mutually 
repellent and attractive influences of the two bodies. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 261 

If the Moon were, for a similar reason, detached 
from the Earth, it could not rotate upon an axis 
of its own unless it departed so far from its former 
rotary position as to escape the controlling in- 
fluence of the Earth, because no league of stable 
groups could rotate upon more than two axes at 
the same time. 

None of the above-mentioned rotations could be 
simple rotations upon fixed axes such as those 
described on pages 218-238. For example, the 
rotation of the Moon that was established by the 
conflict between the mutually repellent and at- 
tractive influences of itself and the Earth must be 
modified by the influence of its former rotation upon 
the Earth's axis. And all rotations of Sun, Moon, 
and Earth must be modified by the influences of 
all other bodies lying within their fields. Hence 
the apparent polar members of all their axes are 
constantly changing. 

If we thought we had learned how to navigate 
space and had fitted out an expedition to the Moon, 
and if this expedition was set rotating in the ap- 
propriate bent spiral and could be kept to this spiral 
for a sufficient number of rotations, it would find 
the Moon where it had expected to find it. If it 
continued in the same spiral, it must either pierce 
the Moon and emerge on the other side of it or else 
must push the Moon farther away from the Earth. 
If, however, it had been set rotating in a different 



262 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

spiral , it might have left the Moon behind without 
having ever come into spiral contact with it. And 
in either case, our expedition would get no farther 
from the Earth, as migrants travel. 

A word as to our ideas of magnitude is perhaps 
appropriate in this connexion. 

In any experiments that we might make for the 
purpose of learning something of the organisation 
of a stable group, we must of course make use of 
our senses of sight and touch supplemented by in- 
struments constructed along straight and bent 
lines. At the nearest point to a rotating centre- 
change that we could ever hope to reach by such 
means, we should be distant from it many times 

2 U 

-— cosmoids or successive changes of position. It 

must, then, seem to us to be very small, and a great 
number of such centre-changes would be required 
to make an object of considerable apparent size. 
The Earth must unquestionably occupy an enor- 
mously greater space in the cosmon than the modi- 
fied rotary characters of its component stable groups 
would lead us to assign to it, supposing we could 
appreciate its extent in cosmic rows. Yet if we 
could perceive any one of its centre-changes from 
a distance sufficiently small, we should find that 
any cosmoid might travel much farther within this 
centre-change than if it emerged in a cosmic line 
and travelled the whole length of the Earth and back. 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 263 

If the stable group and the atom of matter are 
equivalent symbols of ultimate change, some specu- 
lation is possible, in connexion with our conclusion 
(2), as to the destiny of matter. No such specula- 
tion will here be undertaken. As a starting-point, 
however, a certain consideration obviously suggests 
itself. In the second chapter (page 80) it was stated 
that matter could not conceivably absorb all that 
which was not matter. But it must be observed 
that, if matter gives place to something which is 
neither matter nor ether (i.e. neither stable group 
nor free-roving cosmon), the geometrical necessity 
considered in connexion with Figures 15-18 need 
no longer exist. 

The second problem here to be noticed briefly 
is one that has of necessity been repeatedly touched 
upon and must be recurred to in the chapters to 
follow. This is 

The relation between the symbolical cosmon and 
that problematical portion or phase of it whose 
experience might at some period be so wide that 
it described itself as taking account more or less 
accurately of changes bearing apparently a remote 
relation to it in every respect. 

That the symbolical cosmic progression from that 
assumptive K 1 with which we began our considera- 
tion must have been continuously in the direction 
of increased heterogeneity because of the growing 
sum of real experience has been clearly indicated. 



264 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

That among the immensely various motions and 
alliances, associative and otherwise, of the stable 
groups, certain regular processes of metabolism 
should be evolved ; and that, among such processes, 
the survival of those which possessed the faculty 
of reproduction of their like under conditions more 
or less different should be favoured by the exigencies 
of a growing cosmic experience ; that all the different 
varieties of these processes should eventually dis- 
appear in favour of others whose average of activity, 
at least, was more complex and more extended, — 
all these developments are not only intelligible, 
but are essentially of a piece with those earlier 
developments which we have reviewed in some detail. 
We have seen that, in the case of the individual 
cosmoids, the ultimate relief from congestion and 
the consequent postponement of a dead-lock in 
the cosmic processes has always come in the form 
of an apparent menace to an existing institution. 
It has always been a compelling or even, as it were, 
a destroying influence from which gain has been 
derived. The cosmoids apprehending only their 
immediate neighbours must continually be com- 
pelled into uncongenial surroundings that ultimate 
release from a greater danger may be secured. Any 
account taken of their immediate surroundings 
must in time include an account of remote regions 
of the cosmon, in which account the fulness of detail 
would vary directly with the distance in time from 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 265 

K 1 and inversely with the distance in cosmic lines. 
That the cosmoids must be so compelled and that 
such account must be taken solely by virtue of that 
attribute — the ability to profit by their restricted 
experience since K 1 — which is symbolical of their 
essential property of motion, we have seen to be 
a positive necessity of the case, to the exclusion 
of any external governing or informing influence. 
That in time certain of the resultant processes 
should take a shape which described itself as con- 
sciousness or mind, and was appropriately mystified 
by the insufficiency of the description seems at least 
as probable as that KT should have been reached 
when molecular life or plant life was the most ad- 
vanced form of cosmic activity. Equally rational 
seems the conjecture that the "mind" which eventu- 
ally contemplates its own imminent translation 
from KT to K 1 will not be so perplexed by the 
consciousness of its immense superiority over our 
minds of to-day as we now are in contemplating 
the gap which separates us from the plants. 

And the question, Whence all this great world? 
could have no meaning to this best of knowers save 
as one of the difficulties necessarily confronting an 
ancestry that grappled with ideas of finitude and 
infinity. Of any supposable universe other than 
the one-dimension universe no account could be 
in any way useful which offered no explanation of 
the origin of the "materials" of which it was made. 



266 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

The only answer to "Whence?" is then "Unknow- 
able"; and any who take this answer seriously 
must cease to think at all, since it possesses no 
implications beyond a denial of their right to even 
partial judgement in any particular of their existence. 
In a universe which may demonstrate the sum of 
possible differences and outside of which or anterior 
to which nothing is therefore conceivable, the 
question "Whence?" is of course meaningless. 

To sum up, now, the results of this investigation 
in their relation to those other investigations re- 
corded in the first two chapters: 

It is not contended that a complete universe may 
be constructed out of logic. It is contended, how- 
ever, that a complete universe may not be con- 
structed in any other way. In other words, the 
construction of a complete universe is not in ques- 
tion at all: cannot possibly be a legitimate human 
aim. Here, indeed, is one expression of the principle 
of continuous change: Change is not yet defined; 
hence you cannot know what the universe is nor 
anything in it. 

But observe what is indeed possible, according 
to the same necessity. You may go on improving 
your conceptions of phenomena up to any point 
within those limits to human or present-day ex- 
perience which will appear obvious to omniscience. 
You may go on indefinitely separating illusion from 



THE FICTION OF A UNIVERSE 267 

illusion; i.e. putting successive conceptions behind 
you. You may not discover what honey dew is, 
but you may satisfy yourself that it is not a "kind 
of saliva emanating from the stars." How do you 
do this? 

Leaving poetic intuition out of account as a faculty 
rather difficult to discuss, you know two ways of 
doing this. One is by an exhaustive, study of ap- 
pearances; the other is by an equally painstaking 
application of logical methods to the first principle 
to which all appearances point. The former plan 
is at present distinctly the more popular of the two, 
and its results, so far as they go, have been thrilling 
indeed. But, since one of these results has been 
to emphasise more strongly than ever before the 
necessity that Change is the basis of all phenomena, 
Change must itself become a subject of discussion. 
Change is difficult to talk about; it is constantly 
denying the competence of logic to sound all its 
manifestations; yet it has this obvious advantage. 
If you begin with particular phenomena, you are 
dealing exclusively with that which can have no 
ultimate validity; but if you begin with Change, 
you stand on the firm basis of an immutable prin- 
ciple. (Cf. page 18.) 

That Change, single, continuous, homogeneous, 
culminates, for one thing, in this apparent universe 
of ours is a conclusion inevitably derived from any 
painstaking study of matter, politics, love, elec- 



268 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

tricity. How it may so culminate is the question 
that has been discussed in some of its more obvious 
aspects in the course of this chapter. It is a pretty 
exercise, and nothing in the world could be better 
worth while. Of all the thousands of young men, 
now potential scientists and philosophers, I should 
like to see at least one-half enabled to devote from 
a year to a lifetime of thought to enquiries of this 
nature. For not only are such enquiries essential 
to the continued advancement of knowledge, but 
they carry the promise of a rich reward, even within 
our day, to the curious investigator and the practical 
philanthropist alike. 

Certain obvious inconsistencies in the terminology 
of this chapter were desirable in the interest of 
brevity. For example, "real cosmoids" means 
cosmoids as they would be regarded by any intel- 
ligence that did not stipulate for an illusory per- 
manent "thing" as a subject for discussion. 
Similarly, "symbols of reality" means the assumed 
permanent symbols of an ultimate process. "In- 
definite" is used with reference to the unknown 
possibilities of any particular epoch. That reality 
is the limit of the possible is, of course, implied in 
the results of this investigation. 



CHAPTER IV 

REASON AND WILL 

In this chapter and in those to follow, the results 
reached in the course of the foregoing chapters will 
be taken for granted and will be frequently referred 
to, although it will sometimes be desirable to cover 
a portion of the old ground a second time. 

It is perfectly possible to speak of consciousness, 
its origin and destiny, in the same spirit and intent 
as of a particular idea or of an apple. For the con- 
scious self is clearly one of the possible and inevi- 
table illusions of which everybody takes account and 
about which everybody disagrees with his neigh- 
bour's positive statements except in so far as they 
describe it as an embodiment of Change. It is 
entirely natural that we should unite on the term 
Consciousness in the face of this disagreement, 
because we find it necessary to classify our illusions 
in the most obvious manner possible. Thus, a man 
who believes the stones to possess consciousness 
will generally use the term in the same way as a man 
who holds the contrary belief, because he readily 
admits that it seems to apply more certainly to 

269 



270 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

living animals than to stones or even to trees; just 
as a man who admits his complete ignorance of 
apples and pears will nevertheless speak fluently of 
both fruits and make the usual distinctions between 
them. 

But, the universe itself being a continuous and 
homogeneous process, it is impossible to treat con- 
sciousness as a fundamental entity having begin- 
ning or end or actual residence in living beings. 
This is indeed old ground revisited; nevertheless 
an analogy and a further explanation may be of 
interest. 

In our consideration of the hypothetical universe 
of one dimension we saw that the stable group 
was the source of waves travelling through the 
cosmon at a vastly different velocity from that of 
any modifications that might emanate from any of 
its members after the disruption of the group. But, 
since the velocity of the waves emanating from the 
stable group was determined by the constant ratio 
between mass and primary rotary velocity which, 
in turn, was derived solely from the symbolical 
ability of the cosmoids to profit by experience, it is 
clear that the formation of the stable group in- 
augurated no really new process in the universe. 
The cosmoids were changing places as before, but 
to us who were unable to comprehend all their in- 
dividual changes it was convenient to invent the 
idea of a vibrating stable group, the source of 



REASON AND WILL 271 

waves travelling at a uniform velocity vastly lower 
than that of migrants. Similarly, when the experi- 
ential atom of matter is disrupted or transformed 
with a loss of weight, it is inconceivable that the 
sum of any fundamental process is in consequence 
either greater or less : in deference to our ignorance 
of such processes, we find it convenient to say that 
purely material processes have suffered a loss. It 
is, then, out of the question that anything essen- 
tially new should arise when earth, water, and air 
give of themselves to the seed to produce a plant ; 
or that any new process should have been evolved 
at that time in the past when plant life first made its 
appearance. 

Of equal necessity, and still more obviously, is 
consciousness itself a symbol dependent at any time, 
for the particular quality of its appearance, upon the 
particular experience embodied in that ultimate 
change which it invariably shares with the objects 
affecting it. By "the particular experience " is 
meant of course the particular degree of experience, 
since qualitative differences in illusions represent 
quantitative differences in ultimate experience, or 
differences of position in the order of change. Very 
significant were those historically celebrated doubts 
as to the possibility of anything having had a be- 
ginning, which were suggested by the fact of our 
inability to fix in imagination the point at which 
such beginning should have taken place. At all 



272 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

events, it should now be sufficiently clear that, if 
we could know enough about consciousness, we 
should never speak of its origin in either space or 
time. For it is only in deference to our ignorance of 
the subject that we speak of the child as possessing 
a new and individual consciousness appearing some- 
where between its conception and its fifth year, or 
that we speak of epochs in terrestrial history in 
which conscious beings did not exist. And the 
destiny of consciousness, whether implied in the 
death of an individual or in the annihilation of the 
human race, is equally devoid of any significance 
other than that of a convenient symbol. 

A thing which can have neither origin nor destiny 
in fact, seems hardly worth discussing as a thing 
apart in any ulterior sense. The chief logical con- 
ceit on which rests the supposed ultimate identity 
of consciousness may, however, be recurred to since 
it has already been mentioned (Chap. II, page 69). 
The assertion has often been made that a thing can- 
not be aware of itself, and this is doubtless a perfectly 
logical statement. But all empirical evidence and 
all logic point, first and foremost, to Change as the 
one and ultimate principle of the known and know- 
ing universe. And this principle, as we have already 
seen, ultimately invalidates all logic and all empirical 
evidence except in one respect — in respect of itself. 
Incidentally it denies the possibility of an interval 
of time in which a thing may be itself and not some- 



REASON AND WILL 273 

thing else, and stipulates that such a " thing" may 
be aware of that which it is replacing just as well as 
of anything else. "Just as well," be it observed, 
and no better. And this "just as well" means ut- 
terly badly, except always in respect of Change itself. 
It means far worse than our memories appear to 
serve us. For in the universe of Change, the act 
of knowing is no less illusory than the known. 

This preamble has been designed mainly to em- 
phasise the ulterior unimportance of any distinc- 
tions between Reason and Will. To whom, indeed, 
can it matter whether it be Reason or Will that 
impels a man to live when the odds are heavily 
against him? To whom can it matter if volition 
be explicable in terms of sensation or no ? 

It is highly doubtful if these questions will ever 
be mooted by any more advanced intelligences than 
our own. Amongst us of to-day they are clearly 
of great moment only to those who have for sole 
reliance a religion or a morality — who are obliged 
to defend this religion or morality at all costs since, 
if they were deprived of it, they believe they would 
be utterly at the mercy of death, suffering, their 
neighbours, themselves. To any who are not so 
dependent — and the practical purpose of this book 
is plainly enough to add to their number — the 
problems of the reason and the will must possess 
far less interest. 



274 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Nevertheless, these problems do at least possess 
an immediate practical importance. With regard 
to immediate posterity, it is desirable that some 
kind of negative understanding about them should 
be arrived at: just such an understanding as our 
most able and impassioned moralists and religionists 
are conscientiously doing their utmost to prevent. 
This is readily attainable by the curious and candid. 

In a continuous universe it is, of course, just as im- 
possible that volition should be ultimately explained 
in terms of sensation as that molecular life should 
be so explained in terms of atomic life. Nevertheless, 
so long as we continue to use the terms in question, 
the common-sense view — the view that would 
naturally be taken but for the above-mentioned 
considerations — is that probably volition is sym- 
bolically explicable in terms of sensation, because 

(1) there is no evidence that volition is not thus 
symbolically explicable ; 

(2) of all the forms of mental activity, sensation is 
the most elementary and the most obviously present 
in the greatest number of relations between the or- 
ganic and inorganic worlds ; and 

(3) the same acts often result from simple reflexes 
as from the most deliberate or harassed volition. 

For similar reasons — and this is the more im- 
portant point — the common-sense symbolical view 
of Reason and Will is that they are one and the same 
thing. The same consequences — say, life or death 



REASON AND WILL 275 

— may follow in any particular case from the opera- 
tion of either. Suppose a certain man to have taken 
his own life; we cannot say if Reason or Will was 
responsible. Suppose another man to be reasoning 
over his own life or death; we cannot possibly fore- 
tell the issue, even if we are as well acquainted with 
the circumstances of the case as he is himself. 

Reason may quite well be regarded as included 
within Will — as being, if you like, an inferior 
though potent order of will which, for example, 
impels great masses of people to struggle to preserve 
life when, with the exercise of a better will, the hope- 
lessness of any good coming of the struggle would 
become immediately obvious to them. Generally, 
however, we regard such a recognition of hopeless- 
ness as a mental process of putting two and two 
together. Hence it is easier to regard Will as a 
kind of Reason — a higher or a lower kind, as the 
case may be. There would then be a great many 
kinds or degrees of Reason ; and it would doubtless 
be well for the practical philosopher to speak rather 
more cautiously of their relative values than has been 
usual in the past. No one of them, ultimately, 
can be higher or lower than another. Hence (and 
for other reasons that have been considered and will 
at once suggest themselves) it is perfectly unjusti- 
fiable for the practical philosopher to bring severely 
to bear upon them the results of his study of history. 
If he knew all the history there was to be known, 



276 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

this would still be unjustifiable. Let us remember 
what there is that is certain. There is but one cer- 
tainty, and to this certainty history has indeed 
contributed, but in very slight degree, as we com- 
monly understand the term history. Other gener- 
alisations drawn from history are not only theoreti- 
cally but also practically worthless except upon the 
assumption that most other people have drawn the 
same generalisations and are prepared to act accord- 
ingly. Once a more interesting basis for future 
action is provided, the particular lessons which con- 
stitute the so-called generalisations from history 
must go for naught. Of course, this may happen at 
any moment ; and it will then be useless to rely on 
the probability that what will happen next year 
will be very similar to something that happened 
some four thousand years ago. 

These remarks are made with especial reference 
to the so-called will to live, upon the general reason- 
ableness or unreasonableness of which history can 
pronounce no verdict. In view of our one certainty, 
it must be contended that the will to live, even with 
the odds against happiness, is apparently a higher 
form of reason in the individual human being than 
the will to die under the same circumstances, be- 
cause the individual human life possesses greater 
significance than the individual human death. 
Similarly, all other things being equal, there is better 
reason to rescue a shipwrecked crew than to leave 
them to drown. 



REASON AND WILL 277 

These propositions suggest many others which will 
be discussed at some length in the seventh chapter. 
The purpose of the present chapter has been to show 
the futility (in the light of our earlier investigations) 
of any effort to unseat Reason or its equivalent as 
the prime motive force in our daily life. The effort 
was of course based on the assumption that all 
reason was good and might even be perfect and 
sound ; hence it could not be reason that prompted 
a man to drag on a life of certain misery. Un- 
doubtedly such reason is apparently bad; but it is 
just as much reason as that which impels another 
man to live morally, or as that which impels most 
men to set their own arbitrary limits to the juris- 
diction of reason itself, — avowedly applying ra- 
tional methods to all the immediate affairs of life, 
judging their neighbours by their ability for and per- 
sistence in applying such methods, yet raising each 
his own quaint little barrier beyond which reason 
shall not be suffered to tread. 

The most highly rational life attainable by our- 
selves and by our immediate posterity will be sketched 
under some of its most important heads in the 
seventh chapter. First, however, because of their 
bearing on such a life, should be discussed somewhat 
more fully than hitherto the problem of dissolution, 
— dissolution of the material universe (Chap. V) and 
dissolution of the individual human life (Chap. VI). 



CHAPTER V 



DEVOLUTION 



The special student, as is well known, is prone 
to bring severely to bear upon general questions 
the results, both positive and negative, of his own 
particular branch of research. If I have devoted 
the better part of my life to music, I may look ex- 
clusively for melodies in a forest which is more 
remarkable for the variety in form and colour of the 
foliage. If I am a lover or a philanthropist, I shall 
very likely be scornful of impersonal or of any but 
the most immediately personal considerations. 

Our concern being for the moment with the natural 
sciences, we may observe that the astronomer is 
often the most forward in wishing that the stars were 
either farther off or else very much nearer. And now 
a band of scientists of various denominations have 
been showing us excellent reasons to believe that 
we are in a fair way to be completely demolished 
within a very short time, — i.e. within a few millions 
of years. 

It should be understood that this doctrine is 
entitled to the greatest respect by reason both of the 
considerations that support it and of the varied and 

278 



DEVOLUTION 279 

important achievements of its champions. For my 
part, I have no strong objection to subscribing to it 
provisionally; nor shall I resent being called silly 
or presumptuous for describing it, as I instinctively 
must, as a cart-before-the-horse kind of doctrine. 
Our notable friends and benefactors have loaded the 
cart with certain weighty packages on which they 
gaze in fascination and mild dismay. " Gravity 
uncomprehended," " Space uninhabitable/ ' " Inter- 
stellar distances," are some of the labels upon this 
merchandise ; presently, with a great heave of honest 
arms, in goes " Energy to be degraded/ ' heaviest 
and bulkiest of all. When, at last, somebody thinks 
of leading poor Gee-Gee Humanity from his stall, 
these conscientious carmen turn to him with sad 
wistfulness in their eyes. His steps are so coltish; 
he is still so restive under the mildest of bits and 
harness! If only he might be allowed to grow 
and be properly broken — but alack ! not a moment 
is to be lost in delivery of the goods. On the whole, 
it seems hardly worth while putting him in — and 
there's never a sign of another nag in the neighbour- 
hood! 

Yet, in truth, the future effect of earthly man 
upon the evolutionary and devolutionary process is 
a problem upon which no very satisfactory specula- 
tion is now possible. If we ask ourselves, May we, 
when our sun grows cold, give him a knock which 
shall rouse him again but not excessively to warmth ? 



280 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

no considerations suggest themselves which seem 
at all likely to throw much light on the subject. We 
know that the only thing needed would be a discreet 
but forcible knock. Who or what shall administer 
it is largely a matter of sentimental opinion: the 
straight thinker will be he that shall have guessed 
aright. 

Or, in contemplating the radio-active matter of 
our solar system, we can hardly prophesy as to our 
chance of arresting or modifying that process of 
material decay which, though promising a longer 
period of comfortable warmth upon Earth, may 
eventually lead to conditions making impossible any 
such life as we have experienced as a race. It is 
true that to do this to some extent we have only to 
get into closer working touch with certain relatively 
superficial appearances or manifestations of change 
such as the internal organisation of an atom of 
matter. To some it may seem highly probable 
that this will be done in a comparatively short time ; 
but a single step, short as it may appear when de- 
scribed in words, may be surprisingly long in the 
performance. 

Any device that might be made to respond selec- 
tively to the various gravitational pulls to which it 
was subjected, regardless of their intensity, is like- 
wise dependent for its invention upon the results 
of further research into the constitution of matter. 

Finally, since we have received neither the visit 



DEVOLUTION 281 

nor the message of any inhabitants of Earth's sister 
planets or of the planets of another sun, we may 
provisionally assume that these beings, if any such 
exist, are now or soon will be confronting this same 
problem of the cart and horse. 

It becomes necessary, then, to contemplate as a 
possibility the eventual destruction of the human 
race; and, however this might be brought about, 
it is inevitable that we should now enquire what 
might happen afterwards, no matter how vague are 
the possible lines of enquiry. For this purpose we 
shall with advantage keep always before us certain 
familiar considerations which are generally absent, 
nevertheless, from an enquiry, say, into the destiny 
of politics. One of these considerations is our idea, 
experimentally gained, of relative magnitudes. We 
know not how big the universe may be, nor if bigness 
be a term really applicable to it. But in considering 
any evolutionary or devolutionary catastrophe, 
such idea of bigness as we have gained is necessarily 
to be taken into account. Now, relatively to the 
material processes of the sum of that part of the 
universe which we have measured, the most momen- 
tous events conceivable within our solar system 
would be so trivial that pin-pricks and flea-bites upon 
the human body are utterly inadequate as a com- 
parison. We may be very important persons, we 
humans, — the more so, the better from an evolution- 
ary point of view, — but the scope of our activity is 



282 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

ridiculously small. In the far-off heavens are vast 
numbers of solar systems in which evolution is 
certainly going on under enormously various local 
conditions. In the regions beyond this stellar 
universe of ours — which universe may be but as an 
atom in the sum of things — there is no reason to 
believe that devolution has reached a stage at which 
it becomes a menace to a race of living beings such 
as ourselves. If the actual universe be something 
akin to our hypothetical one-dimension universe, 
it is clear that devolution is but a phase of evolution 
and has been going on ever since the beginning of 
evolutionary times. At all events, we are to remem- 
ber that energy, being measurable, can be nothing 
but an appearance, and that its availability or un- 
availability can in no way affect the basic process 
from which it is derived. 

Let two extra-terrestrial gamblers, knowing no 
more than we now know of those distant heavens, 
observe our extinction as a race and the return of 
Earth and her sister planets to the cold bosom of 
their mother sun. Only the offer of long odds would 
tempt either of them to wager that this sun and all 
its evolutionary records would never be inspected 
by an alien race. 

Like gamblers, calculating the odds, must we 
approach all evolutionary problems immediate or 
remote. What shall we say, then, of the odds in 
this same problem, stated differently as follows ? 



DEVOLUTION 283 

That matter and energy should evolve is an 
evolutionary necessity as well as an almost inevitable 
inference from the facts of science. 

That life should evolve is a similar necessity and fact. 

Life is now entirely dependent upon matter and 
energy and inseparable from them. Whether or 
not they ever existed without ministering somewhere 
to life, whether or not life may survive them, — it is 
at all events certain that, within times of which we 
have some knowledge, there has been ceaseless action 
and reaction between life and its outside means of 
support. 

Is it, then, likely that the degradation of matter 
and of energy which we observe to be regularly and 
continuously going forward will eventually render 
impossible all conceivable forms of life? Or is this 
process more probably coeval with modifications, 
palpable and potential, of life itself which will in 
time result in a life incapable of being supported 
upon turnips and potatoes, blankets and hot-water 
bottles, though able to flourish upon their degraded 
substitutes ? 

The more closely we examine, from the evolution- 
ary point of view, this problem of the destiny of life 
in general, the more surely may we predict that, 
though there is not nor ever wiil be any evolutionary 
argument to convince, the probabilities of the case 
will, from age to age, lead our hereditary thought 
ever farther from the idea of extinction. 



284 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

When we mount to the ultra-evolutionary lookout, 
we penetrate to a different atmosphere. We find, 
indeed, that much of the detail of our road of destiny- 
has faded from view: sticks and stones, ruts and 
mire seem not to be there, nor the spring by the way- 
side; but we have no longer to judge by the few 
uncertain rods that lie under our very noses, since 
from here we may follow its true course from horizon 
back to horizon. The general character of this 
prospect has already been described: let us take 
another look. 

From this seeming pin-point of an Earth goes 
forth each instant a complete potential copy of the 
immensely various things within it. All things 
outside receive the impression which then awaits but 
the developing hand of time. But what is this de- 
veloping hand of time ? We have seen it to be other 
impressions: new experience combined with old. 
Any point in time represents or equals the sum of ex- 
perience ; any later point in time again equals the sum 
of experience ; the interval between these two points 
in time equals the difference in experience; the last 
moment of time equals all time, equals all experience ; 
the first moment of time equals the least experience. 
We of to-day embody more time than did our ances- 
tors. Our experience is therefore more rapid, al- 
though the evolutionary character of this experience 
may prevent us from becoming aware of this gain in 
speed. Similarly, the degraded matter of our planet 



DEVOLUTION 285 

will embody more experience than the nebular mat- 
ter from which it was presumably derived. Suppose 
the matter contained within our solar system to have 
formed part of an earlier system somewhere within 
which was developed a race of evolutionarily rational 
creatures like ourselves. Could we inspect these 
creatures and their activities, they might conceivably 
appear to us to have attained a higher degree of 
civilisation than would seem likely ever to be attained 
upon our Earth. Their evolutionary opportunities 
may have been greater or their racial life longer. 
Though unable or unwilling to avert their material 
doom, they may nevertheless have had good reason 
to believe that their local successors would be another 
hybrid race and inferior to themselves ; that the two 
successive civilisations would be like the blossoming 
of a tree in two successive springs, the later blossoms 
being less full than the earlier, the tree itself destined 
to give place to others. But no considerations that 
may have brought them to this conclusion can have 
disposed them to melancholy, any more than we may 
ourselves be thoughtfully so disposed by the dis- 
appearance of a variety of fine birds. 



CHAPTER VI 

A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 

Therefore I confess I do not greatly care whether 
our race escapes the doom of its mother Earth or not. 
We have most of us been brought to the verge of 
individual suicide at one time or another, and un- 
doubtedly the being brought to the verge is the 
painful thing. It is unlikely that anything worse is 
in store for posterity on this score. Indeed there is 
every reason to believe that earthly posterity will 
have ever fewer emotional concerns over the fate of 
the race as a whole and of its individual units, at the 
same time that it develops a greater intellectual 
interest in both questions; for an increasing in- 
difference to death could not be supposed to make 
other than reasoned suicides more common, whilst 
the decline in force of the emotional instinct of self- 
preservation and in frequency of the opportunities of 
presuming upon this instinct in others would imply 
increased advantages of energy, time, and oppor- 
tunity for investigating the more really interesting 
problems of life. To posterity death cannot be the 
same death that it is to us; if sufficient time is 
vouchsafed to this posterity upon Earth, death will 

286 



A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 287 

come to mean a new life the fulness of which, in its 
individual character, is — for pain or for pleasure — 
inversely as the fulness of the old . That our descend- 
ants will in reality be living faster than ourselves 
is theoretically clear; and it seems probable, so far 
as we can forecast the physical conditions of their 
life, that they will also be more active and alert in 
dealing with appearances. The advantage to us of 
to-day of speculating upon the considerations that 
would weigh with them in individual cases in favour 
of a tranquil suicide, or of a prolongation of their 
actual life, or in their choice of occupations is a 
point that will be taken up in the chapters to follow. 
Meanwhile, however, a few general conceptions may 
be stated. 

We may conceive certain of our descendants as 
busily engaged in the construction of a machine for 
navigating space which interests them to some 
extent as a means of transporting the human race 
from their old abode, but more immediately as a 
mechanism and as the vehicle of a novel expedition 
of discovery. 

Again, we may conceive the navigators of space as 
trying to discover, amongst other things, if the time 
be ripe and the means adequate for the definitive 
removal of themselves and their fellows from Earth, 
or if the time-honoured method of translation shall, 
in sum, be more suitable. 

Again, we may conceive them as weighing 



288 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the rival advantages of different manners of race 
suicide. 

Although gaiety is a frame of mind that seems 
hardly to be associated with the last and best of 
knowers, it is probable that our earthly descendants 
of the next few millions of years, provided they have 
nothing but themselves to fear ; will take an in- 
creasingly brighter view of life at the expense of the 
more intense transitions from sorrow to joy. When 
the theoretical absurdity of the scruples of conscience 
and of the fear of death has had time to become 
one of the omnipresent determinants of intellectual 
characteristics handed down from father to son, the 
race will indeed be deprived of some of the fierce joy 
that follows the release from terror as well as of the 
generous glow of altruism, but will, on the other 
hand, be more equably gladdened by the perception 
of its gradual emancipation from the tyranny of 
lugubrious prepossessions. It should, however, be 
frankly admitted that the implied brightness of 
temper, though inevitably to be predicated of our 
eventual universal successors, might, in the case of 
our terrestrial descendants, be seriously interfered 
with by influences which we have now no means of 
measuring. For example, devolution may con- 
ceivably contain some cosmical catastrophe which 
would affect a root-eating humanity most grievously. 
But if, for a considerable space, posterity has little 



A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 289 

to fear but itself, it should assuredly gain in gaiety 
as it loses in opportunities of bliss. 

So are we led back to the question of pains and 
pleasures past and to come, which may here be 
examined in an aspect somewhat less general than in 
the course of our earlier enquiries. To this end, let 
me first ask : if I die this day, what next ? 

So far as I am concerned, anything that happens 
must happen at once ; for, though this happening be 
the equivalent of a billion terrestrial years off, it 
must constitute, in my individual experience, the 
very next moment of time. 

But what, now, is this individual experience? 
What am I that am dead ? 

For one thing, a bundle of brains, nerves, blood, 
and bones, the essence of which will go on with its 
characteristic activities and eventually be gathered 
in by the knowing. 

And what else am I ? 

Clearly the thinking feature of these brains cannot 
depart from their other features and shift for itself. 
Such an emanation could have nothing in common 
with my earlier thought, all of whose memories, 
comparisons, inferences, consisted in the relation of 
new universal effects to that resultant of past effects 
called life. My thought was not ultimate thought; 
such as it was, it belonged to life. Each memory of 
mine was derived from a life-sensation ; and the only 



290 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

being that might singly prolong these memories 
after my death and so preserve my identity apart 
from life would be one that was associated in some 
way with my living thought yet was not wholly 
dependent upon life- or matter-sensations for its 
own thought. 

Upon a moment's consideration it becomes clear 
that such a being cannot exist: in other words, 
that my ultra-evolutionary self cannot be indepen- 
dent of my evolutionary self. When I recognised, 
during life, the necessity of continuous and universal 
change, my ultra-evolutionary self was in evidence 
through my evolutionary self. That is to say, I had 
derived an ultra-evolutionary conception from the 
memory and comparison of evolutionary impressions. 
Each of these impressions was faulty, incomplete. 
According to the particular sense-organ receiving it, 
it appeared to be definite, perfect; but the memory 
of it, when compared with the memory of a conflicting 
impression, demonstrated the imperfection of both 
impressions. The similarly demonstrated imperfec- 
tion of all impressions, however axiomatic, revealed 
the necessity that the processes manifesting them- 
selves in evolutionary phenomena were only partially 
— i.e. symbolically — apprehensible to an evolu- 
tionary being. Since, then, all the evolutionary pro- 
cesses that occasioned my impressions were merely 
symbolical combinations of ultra-evolutionary pro- 
cesses and in no way distinct from them, it is in- 



A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 291 

conceivable that, after death, the ultra-evolutionary 
self should be separated from the evolutionary. 
The acquirement of ultra-evolutionary ideas which 
shall dissipate strictly evolutionary ideas consists 
in the continuous and cumulative modification of 
evolutionary by other ultra-evolutionary processes 
up to that hypothetical point, never to be reached 
in evolutionary times, at which the ultimate factors 
in the evolutionary processes are all obvious. In 
one-dimensional terms, when stable groups of centre- 
changes have given sufficiently varied entertainment 
to one another's straying migrants, the possibilities 
of centre-change existence will be exhausted, and 
centre-changes must dissolve in favour of new alli- 
ances in respect of which our geometrical concepts 
together with our discussion of the spatial necessity 
illustrated in Figure 16 will be irrelevant. 

When my heart has ceased to beat there is, thus, 
a complete absence of data for the existence of any- 
thing, now or but lately inside my body, which should 
be contemporaneous with and similar to the existence 
of my living successors upon Earth. My body, as 
has been observed, will be undergoing processes 
different in appearance from those which were called 
life ; but there neither is within nor comes from out this 
body any representative of my living identity. I am 
extremely dead — dead as a door-nail. What next ? 

If any of my survivors have still patience to hear 
me preaching from my grave, they will hardly expect 



292 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

my promise to join them presently in the form of a 
bird or a cat or to thrill their great-grandchildren 
as the hero dogged by a mysterious second person- 
ality. Such definite and picturesque reincarnations 
are no longer to be seriously considered even by 
deluded and bewildered man, who may nevertheless 
be compensated in other ways. 

The delusions and bewilderment of man suggest 
another aspect of the case. 

What, indeed, was I when alive ? 

I was indeed an idiot of the first water or perhaps, 
rather, a lunatic with rare intervals of semi-lucidity. 
Not only did I hold, unmoved, the universe within 
my palm, but in the immediate affairs of life of which 
I might have gained some useful understanding I 
behaved almost invariably like a blind and maddened 
beast. Only in death may be appraised the tiresome 
incompleteness of such a thing as I. Nay, my good 
respectable Self-respect, when alPs said and done, I 
do not answer. Let others speak for themselves; 
I, at least, do not suffice. I am quite meaningless, 
inconceivable, save as a beginning or, say, an ele- 
mentary stage. Dead, am I ? Finished ? Or what 
shall be said of this unfinished me ? 

The necessity of an existence to follow terrestrial 
death is thus as patent in the emotional aspect of the 
case as in the theoretical or the logical : there is no 
honest process of thought that fails, in the end, to 
bring home to us the slight significance of death. 



A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 293 

As to the particulars of the relation between the 
post-mortem, existence and the ante-mortem, it is 
of course impossible to say much that is satisfactory. 
That upon each of our individual dead begins at once 
the process of gathering by the knowing is necessarily 
true. But the nature and intensity of the earliest 
post-mortem consciousness ; the rapidity with which 
this consciousness is developed; the manner of the 
eventual modification of terrestrial characteristics; 
the rapidity with which, and the circumstances under 
which, separate terrestrial identities become merged ; 
the extent to which the process of gathering will be 
carried within evolutionary times, — upon all these 
questions any speculation must be largely sentimen- 
tal in character. It seems highly probable that the 
process of gathering has always been in operation 
and is steadily gaining in pace ; that all our dead are 
now conscious — so dimly conscious, as we should 
say, that the centuries speed over their heads like 
seconds ; i.e. they are living more slowly than we. 

When we examine an amoeba, we resuscitate in 
some degree all amoebae ; and we regard this as about 
the finest thing that has ever happened to amoebae — 
to become the subject of our scientific thought. 
The late amoebae, to be patients, must be agents as 
well. In symbolical one-dimensional terms, the 
rotations originally set up by their migrants are still 
going on within us. In such wise must we ourselves, 
our loves and our politics, eventually be brought 
under the ultra-evolutionary microscope. 



294 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

We have seen that, when I die, my future existence 
is to be looked for anywhere rather than within my 
body or in any emanation from my body. If my 
son experiences a desire similar to what I should have 
experienced under similar circumstances and modified 
according to the difference in these circumstances, 
there am I alive again. If it is truly similar, it is 
mine just as much as his; and even if it is very 
different, it is in some respect a bit of myself. If a 
stranger to my earthly self is informed of something 
that I said in life and in consequence gains a con- 
ception which he proceeds to modify in some such 
way as I should, under the new circumstances, 
modify it, there am I again. 

Such " reproduction" of the individual life may, as 
we all know, assume considerable proportions before 
the death of the individual, so that a man may, as it 
were, absorb a considerable portion of his own fam- 
ily, community, or nation. Whether it may ever, 
at our present early stage of development, amount 
to a highly varied existence either before or after 
the death of the individual, it would be difficult 
to say. Doubtless, in most instances it would not ; 
for the dissemination of the individual identity is 
deprived of obviousness by the inevitable grossness 
of illusion that belongs to our position in time. It 
would, at all events, be strikingly similar in its par- 
tial and apparent character to that individual life 
which is avowedly distinguished by each of us as 



A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 295 

his own. Furthermore, it would be new, and each 
phase of it would be soon over in proportion to 
its tenuity; i.e. rarity of incident would mean the 
degradation of consciousness. 

Obviously suggestive in its bearing on the life to 
come is the well-known principle governing the 
alternation of pain and pleasure. I believe there are 
very few persons impervious to the conception that 
pain and pleasure, like egoism and altruism, exist 
only in virtue of their apparent mutual opposition. 
That pain of some kind invariably follows upon the 
termination of any kind of pleasure; that pleasure 
invariably follows the release from pain; that the 
pleasure of gratifying an appetite implies the pre- 
cedent pain of the appetite ungratified; that the 
pleasure of altruism is the sequel of a distressed 
sympathy; that the pleasure in an idea depends 
upon the pain inherent in the dearth of ideas ; that a 
continuous succession of pleasurable sensations, if 
sufficiently prolonged, becomes unpleasurable ; that 
pain, if maintained at a certain level for a suffi- 
cient period, is forgotten until its cause is pleas- 
urably removed; that nobody can so long lead a 
monotonous life with satisfaction as one who has 
previously been the victim of much pain and sor- 
row; that no pain or pleasure is so great that it 
may not be indefinitely mitigated by the effort 
of a mind appropriately constituted and trained, 
— all these propositions seem always to have 



296 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

been very generally agreed to by the most widely 
different minds. Doubtless the extremes of pain 
and pleasure have moved apart and will close up 
again in the course of evolutionary history even as 
a stable group may rise and decline in stability. 
However this may be, we have always to take 
account of the vast numbers of our fellow-men who 
are flatly and inevitably suffering physical and 
moral anguish in a degree that drives them to drink, 
to madness, and to despairing suicide. It is by no 
means their fault that their minds are not appropri- 
ately constituted and trained for successfully com- 
bating their sufferings, since but few of their more 
accomplished brethren have this power in any 
considerable degree. So long, moreover, as they 
are permitted to be born and to live with the odds so 
heavily against them, the utmost that may ever be 
done for them upon Earth is little indeed as com- 
pared with that which must be left undone. 

It is unnecessary here to consider in detail the 
psychological aspect of this apparent injustice. 
Whatever may be the degree of, and the relations 
between, the enormously various alternations of 
pain with pleasure, we can hardly escape the con- 
viction that certain members of any generation are 
very much more miserable in the sum of their lives 
than are the others. But that these present unfortu- 
nates must be compensated in full measure under the 
rule of destiny is an obvious necessity. For the 



A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 297 

identity of their own suffering selves and of those of 
their children and of others who suffer after them 
cannot be lost but must, after death, enter upon an 
existence in which the pleasure of release and of the 
progress in knowledge or control of pain is pro- 
portionate to the degree of their sufferings upon 
Earth. Things will delight them to which their 
less suffering contemporaries will be indifferent. 
Conversely, any approach to satiety, whether of 
body or of mind, upon Earth means inevitably a 
slower and more embarrassed existence for some 
time after death. Let us briefly consider another 
aspect of our case. 

" Those good old days when we were so unhappy" 
lose much of their retrospective charm when we face 
what looks like the necessity of living them over and 
over again to infinity. If always, when all possible 
knowledge resolves itself into the least possible 
knowledge, there begins the inevitable succession of 
all possible manifestations of Change, how am I ever 
to escape from that wretched moment in my earthly 
past which, but for the hope of putting it definitely 
behind me, would have made of all things a real and 
perfect hell ? Am I not instead to go through with 
it an infinite number of times? And if it is to be 
multiplied to infinity, what more of existence can I 
have outside of it ? 

This is logic — and, on the face of it, sheer non- 
sense. Had we no means of assailing it from without, 



298 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

we still might flatly repudiate it because of its in- 
ternal implications. But the keystone of this 
phantasmal structure juts boldly out on either side 
for fears and hopes innumerable to hang upon it. 

To traders, fighters, and law-givers, the word 
" again 77 is still available, even indispensable; but in 
the revised dictionary of a continuous universe we 
might as well look for "triped. 77 That wretched 
moment of mine was indeed full of wretchedness, 
and I will say nothing of the relief attending my 
emergence from it or again from its consequences. 
Suffice it to say that it was in itself wretched, and 
that I put it behind me with an act of self-denial or a 
crime or a suicide. But then to suppose that I 
might ever add to the wretchedness of it in any way 
would be equivalent to supposing that I might dupli- 
cate myself by producing another self which, if it was 
indeed a self, would after all turn out to be not 
another self but the same old self. It will be remem- 
bered that in the present consideration of my wretched 
moment, the apparent menace contained in the terms 
" again 77 and " another 77 refers to the ultimate or 
cosmical implications of this moment, not merely to 
its evolutionary implications. This moment, then, 
or my wretchedness of this moment, is a definite 
apparent entity inimitable, unreproducible. It em- 
bodies the sum of certain experience or, in equivalent 
phrase, a moment of time. That it should be 
augmented with more experience, or reproduced 



A RATIONAL VIEW OF DEATH 299 

with the lapse of more time, is manifestly unthink- 
able. 

Such is the theoretical — i.e. the real and indubi- 
table — necessity of the case. But we may never 
forget that, though ultimately we are knowers, 
immediately we are livers ; and it would be rash to 
suppose that this " again," doomed as a word, dying 
as an idea, will quietly and painlessly relinquish its 
hold on evolutionary thought, or that it will ever be 
quite dead in evolutionary times. As to its ultimate 
implications, phantasmal though they be, there is 
even a kind of appropriateness in the instinctive 
apprehensiveness of living beings who, like ourselves, 
are still so crudely constructed as to be liable at any 
moment to outbursts of predatory and homicidal 
fury, lest the consequences of their acts be visited 
upon them over and over again. Some of us, 
again, may like to think that we can eat our cake 
and have it too. If, for example, you are a passion- 
ate poet, you may rejoice that your most blissful 
agonies are not disappearing for ever in favour of a 
milk-and-water existence whose only pain lies in 
ignorance of the number of sands of the sea and 
whose only pleasure lies in counting them. If, on 
the other hand, you are down on your luck, you may 
reflect that the fuller existence, in which luck counts 
for nothing, will be far longer in the living; that 
time — or experience — is cumulative ; that the last 
moment of time will contain all the earlier moments. 



300 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

In general we may be glad that we have none 
of us to dread either the diet of red peppers or of 
sweet biscuits. A single incident in the supposi- 
tional course of sustained happiness may be vividly 
conceived and powerfully executed by a painter ; but 
the moment the kinematograph is mentioned, the 
picture must be given another name. And all our 
names will successively be rubbed out as we go on 
improving our kinematographs. Therefore he who 
proposes to treat of even the most theoretical con- 
siderations in words must expect an advanced 
posterity to be rather amused over his performance ; 
and any attempt at dignity will only heighten the 
ridicule. But when we encounter one of those bands 
of theorists, now so numerous and various, who speak 
of God as the all-knowing, all-pervading, self-suffi- 
cient constituent of the oneness of things, we have 
no business to laugh as if it were the best joke out. 
Neither we nor they may know just what they mean 
by this ; but the probability is strong that the basic 
influence which manifests itself thus curiously is 
one that will eventually make havoc of our tradi- 
tional verbal tidiness. And those others who 
decline to look at any proposition not properly 
constructed of subject, predicate, and copula will 
scarce be heard of. 



CHAPTER VII 

IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS OF A RATIONAL 
VIEW OF DEATH 

On all sides we may witness the curious spectacle 
of educated men devoid of religion (as a working 
force) and of philosophy (save of the kind called 
practical) legislating for us, condemning or acquitting 
us, teaching us the meaning of citizenship, organising 
and conducting our charities. I write of those who 
are regarded as well meaning or tolerably dis- 
interested ; for they must work shoulder to shoulder 
with another class of men whose political, educa- 
tional, and philanthropic projects are undertaken 
more strictly in the interest of self-advancement. 
The ambitions of this latter class, futile though 
they be and bringing no satisfaction with success, 
are more readily intelligible because of the ease 
with which they may be referred to the primal 
instincts of animal man. 

The former class, armed solely with morality, 
have the presumption to swing this clumsy weapon 
about our ears and in its name enlist us in the work 
of interfering with our own chosen pursuits. For it 
is to be observed that morality is indeed a weapon, 

301 



302 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

not a revered idol or beloved symbol. Preeminent 
above all our time-honoured illusions by virtue of its 
intensely practical nature, it is to be seen solemnly 
hewing and carving amongst all those daily concerns 
of ours which we habitually regard as the solid facts 
of life, deny them though we must upon each second 
glance. 

The achievements, or rather the single achieve- 
ment, of so crude a weapon wielded persistently 
against a race that has shown a tendency towards 
increased complexity as illustrated in the transition 
from ape to European were easily to be foreseen. 
Upon the objects of its attack it has accomplished 
absolutely nothing, but has left off with each genera- 
tion where it left off with a preceding one. In 
different climates and in different centuries it looks 
different to the eye, but wherever it has been at 
work the sole practical outcome of this work has 
been the gradual blunting of its own edge. When 
reason confers a benefit, morality does indeed some- 
times get the credit, or perhaps we are assured that 
reason after all belongs to morality; when morality 
fails, a scapegoat is generally ready to hand. For 
morality, at its bluntest, is even now a tremendous 
force, not lightly to be impugned. The source of 
its influence is not far to seek. 

Those who have read my first two chapters will 
readily acquit me of any desire to show specifically 
the points in common and the lines of divergence of 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 303 

religion and morality. In the next chapter will be 
found a well-known definition of religion in the most 
general terms ; but I have no wish here to take up the 
part played in either religion or morality by the 
reverence for ancestors, love of kin, love of woman, 
love of wine, sun, or moon. I merely wish to state 
explicitly what we have all learned from our own 
hearts and our histories, and what is inevitably to be 
inferred from the earlier considerations of this book : 
that what has made morality a tremendous force in 
the world is the fear of death and hell — ay, even 
among those who scoff at fire and brimstone — and 
the hope of an impossible heaven. Nay, the very 
mainspring of all morality is the impulse to preserve 
each individual being from suffering, death, or the 
loss of its soul. 

Obviously this is as worldly and irrational a 
doctrine as any other ; it takes account of time, yet 
attaches supreme importance to a life whose dura- 
tion, as compared with known periods of time, is of 
the tiniest significance. And even if we ignore this 
curious limitation and take the supreme importance 
of the individual human life for granted, we soon find 
(as in the course of our investigation in Chapter II) 
not only that this most practical doctrine of morality 
has never had any practical consummation in the 
past, but that it cannot conceivably have any such 
consummation in the future. By any, therefore, 
who may adopt even as rational a view as is now 



304 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

attainable of death and the derived bugbears of 
suffering and hereafter, morality must be set down 
as an illusion of inferior caliber: one which may 
already be treated as an anachronism and confidently 
opposed with word and deed. In consequence, 
the efforts of those disinterested legislators, jurists, 
and philanthropists mentioned at the beginning of 
this chapter must be regarded as necessarily barren 
of benefits to the race. 

Confess, reader, as you look about you with candid 
and wide-open eyes, that philosophy is now the 
prime need of adult man, life itself being a secondary 
consideration. And parents, seize you the first 
opportunity to teach your growing children that a 
fact cannot be stated. If they then accuse you of 
doing what you proclaim to be impossible, you will 
show them that the more specific the statement, 
the lower its value ; that your first statement has the 
highest value of all. For religion can no longer be 
believed in, and morality is in a similar case, though 
even worse off, for we do not like it, we never have 
liked it, and we never can like it. 

I propose now briefly to sketch the manner of life 
of a race whose intellectual and political leaders, 
at least, should take a tolerably rational view of 
death: a view which denies to death any special 
importance of its own as a thing to be fearfully 
shunned or imperiously courted. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 305 

Certain celebrated and important problems of 
civilisation will not be considered because the 
amount of detail necessarily involved in such con- 
siderations would be disproportionate to the im- 
portance of their inclusion in a sketch of this nature 
— the more so, as the general bearing upon these 
problems of the principles of conduct here to be 
defined will be perfectly clear. Thus, neither 
property nor government will receive a separate 
consideration, although it will be seen that these two 
institutions, now so complex in character that moral- 
ity itself might unaided work very radical rearrange- 
ments in them, would soon, under the more rational 
regime, be classed among the simplest and least 
engrossing of all problems. 

Instead will be chosen for consideration a few of 
our most elementary concerns in which morality 
must always remain powerless to effect any lasting 
modification. I shall point out how the race in 
question would deal with its drunkards, amorists, 
liars, brawlers, invalids. And as the test case, to be 
treated at greatest length, I shall select that of the 
drunkards, both because alcoholism is one of 'the 
most important elementary problems in the countries 
in which I have lived and travelled, and because it 
is in itself well suited to the purpose in hand. 

Unbiassed reformers of our present generation and 
of all times known to history — unbiassed, i.e., by 



306 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

any strong personal inclination to drink — have 
generally tried to dissuade their fellows from drink- 
ing, and especially have they tried to remove oppor- 
tunities for drinking from the paths of men who have 
made of drinking their chief concern in life. 

Now, of the hypothetical race to be brought under 
discussion, I assume that it is in all respects similar 
to our own save in the more rational view of death 
taken by its political and intellectual governors. I 
assume, for example, that it is composed, in respect 
of alcoholism, roughly of three classes of families, 
clans, or subdivisions of the race : (1) families who 
have for generations been temperate or abstemious ; 
(2) families who, in the main temperate, have nev- 
ertheless at intervals or through intermarriage or 
through the exceptional environment of an individ- 
ual or generation, produced intemperate indi- 
viduals; and (3) families who, though notoriously 
intemperate, have, either in the natural course of 
heredity or through the imposition of artificial re- 
straint, produced temperate or abstemious individ- 
uals. It is to be observed that the logical class (4), 
the opposite of (1) — families invariably intemperate 
— or anything nearly approaching it, could not exist. 
I likewise assume that the governors of this race, 
whether the few or the many, are generally con- 
vinced that, so long as the race continues to exist 
under conditions at all similar to those actually 
obtaining, alcoholic beverages will continue to be 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 307 

made and will at times be accessible to any whose 
desire for them is sufficiently great ; that the project 
of controlling the production and distribution of 
spirits so that in all times of peace or strife they 
should be available only for medicinal and mechanical 
purposes is too chimerical to be worthy of serious 
consideration. 

In the laws of such a race — if written laws there 
could be — it would undoubtedly be accounted 
something like a misdemeanour to withhold from 
the drunkard his cup. The more congenial were a 
young man's first experiments in intoxication, the 
more studiously would he be provided with occasions 
for pursuing them. The intemperate husband who 
should find in his wife a ready imitator would be 
seconded in his efforts to reduce her to his own 
condition of servitude. The forcing of wine down 
an unwilling throat on the plea of friendship, respect, 
or common hopes would be regarded as presumably 
futile and certainly barbarous. But every adult 
man and woman would be encouraged to pass 
seriously the test of alcohol ; and those who should 
decline to do so would be regarded as suspicious 
characters, inferior in the social scale to those who 
should pass from this test to a drunkard's grave. 
Even as the drunkard would not be suffered to ply 
the unwilling drinker with liquor, so would he be 
prevented as far as possible from working any other 
injury to his family or his fellows. Upon the first 



308 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

hint of mischievous intent, he would be confined 
either by himself or in a colony of drunkards to 
whom spirits would be supplied either through their 
own means or by the state or by philanthropic 
individuals. 

In the life of any race, otherwise like our own, 
that adopted this attitude towards alcoholism, 
three processes already known to us in theory and 
probably in actual operation in our midst would at 
once acquire a vastly greater scope and a proportion- 
ally higher velocity. They might, and doubtless 
would, be to some extent mutually exclusive; how 
far they would so overlap is of no great moment in 
this discussion, the purpose of which is to show that 
the outcome of their unhampered operation, given 
sufficient time, would be the complete elimination 
of alcoholism as a factor in the racial life, and that 
the greater their scope and velocity, the more rapidly 
would alcoholism decline in importance. 

(1) Everybody would realise that upon his own 
unaided efforts would depend the outcome of any 
conflict, actual or problematical, between his other 
aims and the desire to drink. Supposing this conflict 
already to exist, he would know that society, far 
from being ready to pull him up at critical moments 
and give him a fresh start, would take the opposite 
course and try to remove all hindrances to his 
inebriety save only his own unwillingness to drink. 
There can be no doubt that responsibility of this 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 309 

kind, rarely and imperfectly as it has been realised 
in practice under our own civilisation, has been the 
making of many a man, nor that the self-control 
derivable from it may, according to any possible 
theory of heredity, appear and reappear in successive 
generations as an active foe of alcoholism. In the 
case of our hypothetical society which thrusts this 
responsibility upon all its members, the general inter- 
action of minds and the force of bright example must 
greatly increase the working value of self-control in 
many individuals. 

(2) We have now to consider the results of that 
interaction of minds which is very generally in 
operation under the actual regime of morality. 
The demon of drink is painted by our reformers in 
the most lurid colours: its guile is voluptuously 
satanic; its retribution swift and awful. On one 
side, the joyous carouse, the god-like intoxication; 
on the other, the poverty-stricken home, the deserted 
wife, the criminal's cell, — this pictorial antithesis 
is familiar to all who belong to a bibulous nation. 
Amongst people of means and education the con- 
trast is, of course, not so vividly drawn ; nevertheless 
the youth of average unsophistication goes out into 
the world feeling that a monster lies there in wait 
for him — a monster whose fascinations should 
indeed be proved, but whose cruelties should be 
anticipated and avoided with the utmost agility. 
Knowledge of this creature is often dearly bought, 



310 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

the knowledge itself being of so flimsy a nature. 
For — though it is not the purpose of this work to 
assign any value, however provisional, to the power 
called suggestion — it must be admitted that only a 
man of exceptionally strong mind can, in the business 
of drinking, give fancy and curiosity free play with- 
out coming repeatedly under the shadow of those 
lugubrious possibilities which, if he belongs to a 
drinking nation, he has always been taught to 
associate with this practice. A more submissive 
fellow will look for a reaction to follow his first glass 
of the day and will thus explain the first physical or 
mental depression of the afternoon. Though his 
experience warn him that the second glass is less 
palatable and exhilarating than the first, this ex- 
perience may count as nothing against the time-hon- 
oured dogma that liquor demands more liquor. If 
he finds that he cannot comfortably lead a tippling 
life, he may decide that night-long indulgence fol- 
lowed by week-long abstinence is the most satisfac- 
tory compromise possible with this exacting slave- 
driver : a compromise which, as we have all observed, 
does not generally remain long in force. 

Everywhere may we see wine-lovers, still sound of 
nerve and body, executing various fantastic steps in 
obedience to the dreaded whip ; and as their liquor 
gets the upper hand of them, the dance grows faster 
and more hysterical, the doctor aiding the disease 
as if such a spectacle could not be too far prolonged. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 311 

Meanwhile science stands by, cool and canny, 
applauding feebly from time to time; for she has 
told us that more than a certain insignificant amount 
of alcohol may not be consumed daily by the healthy 
human body without leaving its unmistakable and 
demonstrable marks upon nerves and tissues, and 
that to enquire if these inroads into nerves and 
tissues might be the price paid for general and signifi- 
cant benefits would probably be futile and certainly 
inexpedient. 

With the hypothetical race under discussion, it is 
clear that no such emotional considerations as have 
here been mentioned could weigh in the scale of 
individual choice. The influence necessarily exerted 
by a rational view of death upon personal affections 
and ties of blood will presently be discussed, even 
though it may appear to all readers immediately 
obvious. For the moment it is sufficient to point 
out that under such a regime alcohol could hold out 
neither the attractions of forbidden fruit nor the 
terrors of an inexorable master. The fruit, instead 
of being forbidden, would be prescribed ; if it should 
prove harmful, relief from its consequences would 
be ready to hand. Drunkenness would be regarded 
seriously, as a foe to be despised and removed ; not 
solemnly, as a foe to be dreaded and abused. Drunk- 
enness would be a loathsome vice for which the con- 
firmed drunkard could no longer be held respon- 
sible. One who should decline to pass the test of 



312 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

alcohol would also be held free from responsibility 
for his act, which nevertheless — containing, as it 
would do, a menace to the future welfare of society — 
would stamp its author as a backward member of 
the race and inferior to the drunkard in the social 
scale. Hence those who become addicted to alco- 
holism through resistance to the opposition of society 
or through a superstitious awe of the power of alcohol 
must rapidly decline in numerical and social impor- 
tance. 

(3) The third process in the life of our hypothetical 
race that would be greatly accelerated by the adop- 
tion of a rational attitude towards alcoholism is 
readily to be divined; and to those who regard 
alcoholism as, above all, a disease of the body 
subject in but slight degree or rarely to intellectual 
and moral influences, this process will be deemed 
by far the most important. It may be termed the 
elimination through natural means of those indi- 
viduals, families or subdivisions of the race who, in 
respect of alcoholism, have shown themselves least 
fitted to be factors in the posterity of the race. 

When the constitutional or incurable drunkard is 
given a free hand, — is hindered by neither poverty 
nor police, — he will speedily destroy himself. If, 
at the outset or in the middle of his downward 
career, he were able to secure a wife and beget 
children, — which, as we shall see, would soon come 
to be an unheard-of occurrence in our hypothetical 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 313 

society, — these children or their children or grand- 
children would sooner or later find the odds heavily 
against the persistence of their stock : they would be 
objects of special suspicion, and no pains would be 
spared to demonstrate their fitness or unfitness as 
parents. Hence wine-lovers whose self-control or 
whose reasonableness of temper should be inadequate 
to keep them from excess would gradually disappear 
from posterity, whilst dipsomaniacal outbreaks of 
whole sections of the race would be unknown. 
The theory that this process has already been long 
in operation despite the formidable obstacles it has 
everywhere had to encounter, and that its results 
are both important and conspicuous upon Earth 
to-day, will not here be considered. Our hypotheti- 
cal race removes all obstacles; this being the case, 
any known or conceivable theory of heredity must 
include the eventual elimination of new possibilities 
of alcoholism. Strictly speaking, alcoholism would 
be transmitted to posterity only as an obsolete illu- 
sion steadily to decline in importance relatively to 
the sum of experience; not as a factor in posterity 
able to hold its own with other factors by virtue of 
the cumulative results of its renascence in generation 
after generation. 

On the other hand, no theory of heredity could of 
itself include the elimination of alcohol. Wine is 
enjoyed by so many people that there must of course 
be virtue in it: alcoholism rationally dealt with 



314 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

means the elimination from posterity of all but those 
to whom alcohol is distasteful or immediately in- 
jurious and those who gain substantial benefit from 
its use. 

It is quite in consonance with the principle of 
continuity that nature herself should point unmis- 
takably to the cure of alcoholism. The death of the 
consistent drunkard is the best part of his life. 
It is painless and so conspicuously free from the fear 
and remorse that beset many another death-bed as 
even to suggest alcoholism as a tolerably scientific 
means to suicide ; whereas the drunkard's efforts to 
regain his sobriety are invariably attended with the 
most cruel hallucinations of horror or remorse — 
hardly a suitable legacy to be passed vainly on 
through hundreds of generations of creatures calling 
themselves rational. 

Before enquiring how posterity would get on, with 
all potential drunkards eliminated, or how the 
different classes of our actual society might regard a 
growing disposition in their midst to adopt the 
immoral attitude towards alcoholism that has been 
outlined above, let us briefly consider the rational 
and immoral method of dealing with some of our 
other elementary problems. 

By amorists I mean the whole race of human 
males and females: women presumably by virtue 
of their essential impulse towards motherhood; 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 315 

men presumably because women have always — by 
their self-imposed isolation and separate develop- 
ment and by innumerable devices of modesty and 
coquetry varying according to the circumstances of 
the age — appealed to their curiosity and so brought 
them to serve their purpose. Whether the above 
is a good statement of the case is here a matter of no 
great consequence. If it is indeed a good state- 
ment anthropologically, there has always been 
reason in the sexual relation just as much — or just 
as little, if you regard reason as already an obsolete 
term in every sense — as in the will to live or in the 
mutual attraction of Sun, Moon, and Earth. If 
some other statement is a better one, you will still 
find the same kind of reason in the relation described. 
The point here to be observed is that there exists 
generally a mutual attraction between the sexes. 
Exceptions to the rule, being rare and rather dubious, 
will not here be considered. 

Now, a rational view of death, as we have already 
seen, must affect in many interesting ways the lives 
of them who adopt it. For one thing, freedom of 
intercourse would in our hypothetical society be 
greatly increased, for social reserve must inevitably 
appear ridiculous. The average man would know a 
hundred women better at the end of an hour's 
acquaintance than he now knows ten after a life- 
time of friendship. No secret would be made of 
physical characteristics that were deemed significant. 



316 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Woman might indeed be put to it to preserve her 
supposedly needful isolation except for the fact that 
increased freedom of intercourse would vouchsafe 
to more men, each his particular and inexplicable 
mystery of love — the love that is inevitably to be 
taken for granted in any consideration of our human 
race. 

Moreover, in a society that should confidently 
regard posterity as one of its most intimate posses- 
sions, it is inconceivable that considerations of 
property or of class, as we now understand them, 
should limit the choice of a mate. 

None of the systems of human breeding such as 
have hitherto generally prevailed in our aristocracies, 
our bourgeoisies, our proletariats, have furnished us 
with any very interesting or conclusive data for 
future use. Science, unlike morality, has not been 
suffered to interfere systematically in many of our 
elementary human activities, least of all in this one ; 
hence, though a number of negative conclusions 
have been recorded, it has been difficult to say 
anything at all definite as to the comparative physical 
or mental characteristics in the two parents which 
make for a promising offspring. In default of any 
evidence to the contrary, I venture to affirm that 
in my hypothetical society more generally than in the 
actual world would the mating of men with women 
be governed by love. If love be described as a man's 
unexplained preference, momentary or enduring, for 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 317 

whatever he knows or divines of the body and mind 
of some particular woman above all other women 
known, remembered, or dreamt of, I must deny that 
it is ever altogether absent from the most egoistic 
and brutal of conquests. In the matings that I 
have in mind, love would not be at its minimum, 
but would be both powerful and resourceful; and 
it seems to me highly probable that the evolutionary 
secret of an active and progressive posterity would be 
discovered if love were no longer fettered by social 
reserve, cupidity, prudery, snobbery, and the rest. 

How many women might be loved successively 
by a single man is a question upon which no satis- 
factory speculation seems possible. Probably a 
very large proportion of the race would be monoga- 
mous, not on emotional or moral grounds but from 
inclination. For, howsoever we describe the motive, 
— whether as love, curiosity, lust, or an impulse 
to propagate one's kind, in any of which the rational 
basis is as indefinable as it is indubitable, — the 
effect of a consciously rational attitude toward life 
must be to increase the opportunities of congenial 
mating. In the actual world there are very many 
men who would not give up their wives if they could 
after a year or twenty years of life together. In our 
hypothetical world compatibility between mates 
would far oftener be realised. Far oftener would a 
man be enabled to meet and mate with a woman of 
suitable age, similar conjugal aims, and different 



318 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

temper. A free and active spirit demanding much of 
life would more often emerge from any narrow circle 
whose resources he had early exploited and take to 
himself a woman whose antecedents were entirely 
different from his own. But few, of course, — and 
those the most idle and backward, — would regard 
as suitable any such matches as are now so regarded 
by our moral, social, commercial, and insular 
Philistinism. Northern people would mate with 
Southern; Eastern with Western. She who was 
especially suited to child-bearing would be sought, 
and with good chance of success, by him who should 
bid fair to be a normal father. Conspicuous abnor- 
malities of all kinds would be left to themselves or to 
one another. The Casaubons and the Hedda Gablers 
would mate with one another or not at all, for nobody 
else would want them; the Neros and — their 
female counterparts, who have never been suffi- 
ciently interesting to achieve a crystalline celebrity 
in polite history or verse, although we all know them 
in actual life. Amorists, in sum, like drunkards and 
abstainers from drink, would as far as possible do as 
they liked, not as they thought dutiful or expedient. 

From the above considerations of alcoholism and 
the sexual relation may readily be derived the 
general attitude of a rational regime toward all 
eccentricities of temper that would obviously hinder 
the efforts of posterity to bonefit thoroughly by the 
new experience within its reach. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 319 

By liars^ as by amorists, might well be understood 
the actual human race. The possibility of many liars 
in our hypothetical society is of course extremely 
dubious ; we may note, however, the position occu- 
pied in such a society by those individuals whose 
mendacity is habitual and not necessarily connected 
with any motive of material gain. This kind of liar, 
whether deceiving others as to questions of fact or 
himself as to questions of principles, is above all a 
talker, for he cannot believe what others say and so 
cannot listen with interest. But he could not gain 
the ear of any who feared neither death nor suffering, 
and such would be the political and social leaders 
of the rational regime. Hence he would be out of it, 
not wanted — instead of being in great demand as at 
present. He must then either disappear from the 
race or else turn thinker and listener as well as 
talker, and so cease to lie. 

Brawlers — those who delight in using their fists 
in a little fight or their minds in planning a big one — 
would not be allowed the freedom of the whole 
Earth, but would be given a liberal portion of the 
lands and seas in which to pursue their chosen career. 
They could not, of course, decline the gift without 
appearing ridiculous in their own eyes. When 
separated thus from the peaceably minded, it is 
possible that they would suddenly find their occupa- 
tion gone ; otherwise they could get up wars between 



320 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

ideal armies composed entirely of true fighting men. 
In either case, the police which should keep them 
within limits would probably not long be needed. 
Returning warriors would people all our golf links 
where they would doubtless find dormy four as 
stimulating a problem as the conquest of a rock 
fortress. 

Invalids, again, would be allowed to do exactly 
as they liked provided their acts did not clearly 
endanger the welfare of posterity. In certain cases, 
doubtless, efforts would be made to keep them from 
suicide. Or, if their sufferings or impotence were 
thought to be disproportionate to the probable 
advantages upon Earth of their ultimate release or 
restoration to health, they would be given every 
encouragement to suicide even to the point of being 
socially neglected. The same rule — which amounts 
to the. absence of all but the most necessary rules — 
would be followed in the case of the aged. By the 
natural consequences of their incompetence some 
would be driven to suicide at fifty, others perhaps 
not till ninety. Eventually, doubtless, nobody 
would die a natural death as we now understand it, 
because others would be trying to lead a natural 
life. 

The foregoing sketch of the attitude towards 
certain practical problems of life to be derived from 
a rational view of death makes no pretension to 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 321 

accuracy of detail. Certain contingencies have been 
supposed which would probably never arise ; others, 
certain to arise, could not now be foreseen. Hence 
the omission of the problems of property and 
government. It is obvious that, under the rational 
regime, these two problems would be of the simplest, 
for there could be no disputes over ownership or 
leadership. It is equally clear that they are now 
of the most complex. To demonstrate the character 
of the transition would be beyond the power of any 
man, and to represent, however roughly, any of its 
stages seems beyond the province of this work. 

What I now wish to point out is 

(1) that this hypothetical society, or something 
essentially like it, is possible upon Earth ; 

(2) that it would not be a kind of rational millen- 
nium; 

(3) that, far as it is from either millennial or 
impossible, it is not to be had for the asking. 

(1) In the first place, a view of death sufficiently 
rational to admit of the attitude toward life described 
above is perfectly feasible : the grounds for it have 
been provided in this work. It is perfectly possible 
to improve upon that rational error which has been 
called the will to live in the face of certain misery, 
for many have done this, dying without despair. 
And if individuals scattered through the centuries 



322 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

have done this, we can place no limit to the number 
that may do it in unison. Theoretically, moreover, 
we must regard as accessible to the mass of mankind a 
conception which is inevitably to be perfected by the 
universal descendants or knowing cousins of man- 
kind, — provided nothing prohibitive of such a 
conception pertain to the home of. mankind. But 
death takes place upon Earth. Hence it may be 
viewed by the inhabitants of Earth in a manner 
indefinitely more rational so long as Earth remains 
habitable. A sufficient number of experiences in 
which the idea of death should be implicit would lead 
to a perfect conception of death ; and the net results 
of growing experience, however imperfect, must be 
improving conceptions. 

In the foregoing sketch, a certain attitude was 
described as "rational and immoral"; which was 
only a brief and convenient manner of speaking. 
Morality is, of course, a rational system and a crude 
one in the eyes of them who perceive that the grow- 
ing experience of its authors has reached a point — 
or is soon to reach it — at which the view of death 
enforced by moral syllogisms must be abandoned if 
the race is to have further experience as a race. 
Since the growth of cosmic experience cannot be 
checked, the alternative thus presents itself: dis- 
appearance either of morality or of the race that 
invented it. And since the race has already pro- 
duced a goodly number of individuals who have 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 323 

dispensed with morality in theory and have practised 
it, if at all, only for convenience or to be able the 
better to attack it, the issue of the dilemma seems 
not difficult to predict. 

Some, doubtless, would prefer to regard what I 
have called the disappearance of morality as the 
evolution of morality and would like the code 
embodying any new rules of conduct to be called a 
new morality. Theoretical justification of the most 
roundabout kind could perhaps be found for these 
terms, to say nothing of the question of expediency. 
Evolution of reason would, to my mind, be a more 
suitable term : morality being the older manifestation 
of reason; the new manifestation differing from it 
in the most important practical points. 

The bearing of this evolution of reason upon the 
bonds of affection and friendship as well as upon all 
" humanitarian" considerations is obvious enough 
and demands no detailed discussion. The interested 
reader will probably do exactly as I have done myself. 
I have conjured up instances of the operation of 
reason in my hypothetical society at which I have 
fairly sickened. But so have I sickened at the 
knowledge that a surgeon's knife was buried deep in 
the body of a friend in the next room. Less sick, 
though, was I than they who regarded the surgeon's 
knife as a useless and cruel implement. 

No rational mother could wish to reclaim her son 
from drunkenness by artificial means. If he had 



324 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

shown himself unselfish and lovable save for this 
weakness, she would carry an unsullied image of him 
down to posterity ; for she could not wish this image 
to bear the stain of a bad example, nor the age-long 
existence of them both to be marred by a few years 
of eccentric and unsatisfying indulgence. "Till 
death us do part" is a phrase that could not be 
used to express the limit to any relations existing 
in our hypothetical society, death being indeed no 
more than an anaesthetic — an incident of the op- 
eration that sooner or later becomes necessary 
for the renovation of all human relations. 

To consider, now, another aspect of the possibility 
of this society : 

If we suppose (as the extreme case) that the 
human race should come suddenly under the domina- 
tion of a rational party ; that no potential drunkards 
should develop either a victorious self-control or a 
wholesome scorn of the power of alcohol ; that 
drunkards, morbid amorists, habitual liars, constitu- 
tional brawlers, and confirmed invalids alike should 
die without issue, — there would still remain a 
human race; for we all know plenty of men and 
women innocent of these or any other eccentricities 
in which governors so meagrely equipped with 
knowledge as our rational party would presume to 
interfere. 

In time, probably, the numbers of the race would 
be immensely and deliberately reduced. This is 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 325 

frankly guesswork; for man's increased knowledge 
of and power over his surroundings might conceiv- 
ably bring about conditions of life under which it 
would be possible and highly desirable for the race 
to multiply even beyond its present proportions. 
But, under any conditions that may now be pre- 
dicted, humanity would doubtless be better off if it 
should count only as many thousands — perhaps 
hundreds — as it now does millions. It could then 
live a far more complex and varied life by virtue of 
the removal of those cumbrous institutions whose 
complexity is now the despair of us all, none of us 
pretending that a study of them is even stimulating 
to the mind, since they are all based upon the crudest 
and most obvious illusions. 

I shall not attempt a detailed survey of the contrac- 
tion of our uncongenial activities and the expansion 
of the congenial ones that would follow upon the 
adoption of a rational view of death. A few of the 
more important heads may, however, be enumerated. 

There could be no armies, navies, or churches; 
of lawyers, politicians, bankers, merchants, few if 
any ; no diplomatists ; fewer doctors proportionally 
than now. The production of corn and other articles 
of food would be somewhat less per capita than now, 
since waste could be more easily avoided. The 
relative production of steel would be immensely 
less becalise the railway mileage, the vessel tonnage, 
and the number of steel buildings would be less in 



326 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

proportion to the population/ to say nothing of 
arms and armour. Coal-mining would be the 
affair of a few weeks in each year, and the production 
of gold, silver, and precious stones could be discontin- 
ued for centuries at a time. Important economies 
of labour could be effected in the production of 
cotton, linen, wool, leather, and silk; and the 
demand for wines, spirits, tobacco, opium, and 
similar products would be greatly reduced. The 
drudgery of life, physical and mental, must in conse- 
quence be very much less than it is to-day, and 
nobody would escape his share of it. Doubtless, 
one who should be preeminently good with his 
hands or his arms would prefer weaving or spinning, 
or even hewing or digging, to singing or watching the 
stars or doing nothing, — we cannot comprehend the 
awfulness of doing nothing unless we realise that it 
means not even doing anything vicious, — and such 
a one would probably find musicians and astronomers 
eagerly awaiting him at the employment bureau. 

1 The railway mileage and vessel tonnage would be relatively 
less because ships and railways would not be maintained for 
purely commercial purposes, whilst corn, beef, steel, coal, etc., 
would not need to be transported enormous distances from the 
places where they were produced. Moreover, it would not be 
necessary to become a desultory tourist for want of something 
better to do. The contracted human race would be settled in 
regions each of which produced a considerable portion of the 
necessaries of the age, and with ample means of communication 
for any who wished to travel. There could be no such conges- 
tion in cities as at present nor, consequently, the need of steel 
buildings in a region where iron was not plentiful. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 327 

Some of the most brilliant and potentially useful 
men are now seen as free lances in the fields of 
literature and the fine arts, either because their 
rebellious tempers compel them to distrust more 
orthodox methods or because irregular habits or 
lack of persistence unfit them for steady work. The 
producing power of such men must be far greater 
in our hypothetical society, for nobody could wish to 
make their rebelliousness the cause of their down- 
fall, whilst they would themselves be freer from the 
obsession of original sin which now so often causes 
irregular habits or lack of persistence to end in stulti- 
fying vice. 

In sum, the members of a race that is purged of its 
cowards, brawlers, drunkards, and the like must 
inevitably be freer to devote themselves to pursuits 
which are not distastefully obvious to all and to 
follow each his individual tastes: to be farmers, 
gardeners, mechanics, inventors, sailors, fishermen, 
sportsmen, teachers, scientists, philosophers, poets, 
musicians, builders, painters, sculptors, and still 
have time enough for their own cooking and washing. 
The most stupendous joke of modern times is the 
cumbrous machinery of our civilisation, Aha! No 
satire has begun to do it justice. But when you stop 
to think that you are part and parcel of it all, you 
must laugh out of the other corner of your mouth, 
Ah'm! We shall presently consider some of its 
solemn disadvantages. Meanwhile — 



328 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

(2) Some readers may think it odd of me to be at 
pains to point out that my hypothetical society is 
not a kind of rational millennium. To these the 
mere knowledge that it must still go on recording and 
comparing the same kinds of facts that we now deal 
with would stamp it as necessarily a very primitive 
affair. But I am rash enough to hope for readers 
from that class which comprises nearly all readers 
and which regards the facts of the life it lives as 
having a perdurable solidity; which not only be- 
lieves that (2 + 2 = 4) has been visibly demonstrated 
to it as a truth for all time, but looks upon liberty, 
equality, and fraternity as the highest of human 
ideals, however inexpedient it may be, at any given 
moment, to take steps toward realising this ideal. 
In addressing this class it would seem advisable to be 
as explicit as possible over any such matter as the 
millennium, because its members are generally so en- 
grossed with the problems of government, property, 
charity, and international relations that, if you de- 
scribe to them a society in which there is practically 
no vice, disease, poverty, or disputes over property, 
no nations to war with one another, nor anything to 
prevent a man's doing pretty much as he likes, 
they are very apt to tell you that you are describ- 
ing the millennium — a lovely ideal to keep in the 
back of one's mind, but hardly so suitable a goal for 
immediate practical reforms as something a long 
way this side of it. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 329 

I must therefore suggest to these good canny 
substantialists that, if they will but gently prod their 
imaginations, some facts and necessities may pop 
forth, quite of their chosen variety, which should 
convince them that my hypothetical society is sep- 
arated from any millennium by a distance so enor- 
mous that it may well be at the very next door to our 
own imperfect selves. Indeed, once established, it 
must first of all proclaim: "How helpless we are; 
let us to work ! The heavenly bodies sail serenely 
on in their accustomed spheres; we are but dimly 
and distantly aware of them, yet they seem to us 
symbols of a splendid and orderly progression, 
whilst here upon this pin-point of an Earth, which is 
itself a mighty riddle, reigns chaos indescribable. 
We, its creatures, grope blindly toward ends which 
always elude us at the last. Only the chief and 
general end can we understand, for it meets us at 
every turn and we cannot escape it. All our acts 
and all the processes without us show convergent 
lines which, if we try to bend them, vanish along 
with their starting-points. But the How? — here 
is the sign of our incompetence. Let us by all means 
to work. For we have not yet learned how we shall 
eat, drink, or sleep; walk, run, or rest; beget or 
conceive; build or destroy. In the minds of our 
children there is little we may read; we stumble 
forward with them to almost certain disappointment. 
And not only are we all bad at most things and good 



330 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

only at a few, but each one regards as suitable a 
different manner of life and a different manner of 
death from all the others, so that to each the others 
are incomprehensible. Here are indeed matters to 
put our teeth into." 

The most casual honest scrutiny of this millennium 
of the nursery shows it to be nothing more than a 
manner of speaking, mere baby-talk in fact. The 
society thus curiously labelled is really but a step 
from the one in which we live — a step so short that 
an hour's honest use of their wits by a few hundreds 
of people should end in their beginning with the 
utmost confidence to pave the way. No such impor- 
tant revolution has taken place within the memory 
of man, for indeed — if the histories are not in error — 
nothing of the kind could ever have been expected. 
And to argue that man is not likely to cast off 
morality because he has clung to it through some 
thousands of years is precisely like arguing, as a 
child will, that a chick will probably not break its 
shell and come out into the light of day because 
nothing so striking as this has ever happened to the 
chick before. Grown-ups, on the other hand, have 
either witnessed the hatching of other chicks or have 
been told enough of what is going on inside the shell 
to realise that it may be broken. 

There is nothing to prevent the realisation of my 
hypothetical society within the space of a year 
from this day — absolutely nothing except native 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 331 

stupidity. Moreover, it is impossible to entertain 
serious misgivings on the point : to say, for example : 
"It looks rational, sensible, good, inevitable; but 
what of the limitations of the actual age? In the 
hour of disaster, scores of our people go mad with 
terror and bereavement whilst thousands turn with 
the most convincing passion and sincerity to the 
relics of a saint, averter of scourges. The race is 
almost entirely made up of people like these and of 
others whose superstitions are but a trifle less crude. 
If we try to impose novel syllogisms on these unsea- 
soned masses, the immediate consequences may be 
the opposite of our intention : we may all be plunged 
into an era of barbarous gloom. Then, where should 
we come in, the reasonable ones ? Where would any- 
body come in?" 

Such reflexions are manifestly out of the question. 
I will say nothing of the theory that great benefits 
are to be attained only through great tribulations, 
for I do not believe in this theory. I must, however, 
point out that to any who may regard my hypotheti- 
cal society as "rational, good, sensible, inevitable," 
anything is better than to submit to the actual 
regime. Better, a thousand times, to witness an 
opening era of barbarous gloom than to continue 
to live morally. Take this philosophy seriously and 
you must break the law — as sensibly and unselfishly 
as in you lies ; and you must go on breaking it until 
it is past repair or you are yourself broken. Mis- 



332 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

takes you will make which you will not care to 
repeat; but to keep yourself from error that is in- 
tolerable, break the law you must. 

The prospect is clear enough: man must either 
come out of his shell or die absurdly inside it ; but 
it is clear only to those who will stop and think and 
cease to fear, — cease, that is, trying to glorify 
themselves whilst they may. 

(3) And unless I am a poor judge of the times, the 
hour of hatching has not yet arrived. I need hardly 
say that I have neither the wish nor the power to 
discourage others from working for that practical 
end which I myself most cherish in anticipation ; yet 
I cannot believe that any purpose is served by 
withholding an honest opinion. Therefore, much 
as I wish I may prove wrong, and fully as I realise 
that the more immediate and practical the problem, 
the more dubious must be any diagnosis of it, I 
must record my belief that the times are outwardly 
too peaceable for any new and considerable social 
movement to gain headway. Let me explain what I 
mean by ' i outwardly too peaceable." Though much 
of what I shall say has been said over and over 
again, I believe I differ on one point from most of 
those who complain of the general apathy or opposi- 
tion with which all novel ideas and propaganda are 
at first greeted. 

The outward aspect of the three great classes of 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 333 

society when confronted, as they are from time to 
time, with such a proposition as "Morality must go," 
is familiar enough to all interested observers. From 
the three classes I, of course, exclude the handful 
of people who try to think for themselves and, in so 
thinking, succeed to some extent in forgetting 
that species of reason which we commonly designate 
as emotional considerations. And by the three 
classes I mean classes as they exist to-day, and 
roughly as they have existed in certain other 
periods of history. 

The Proletariat or that portion of them to whose 
ears the novel proposition has penetrated, receive 
it in dumb wonder, perhaps with dismay; but 
generally the first question they ask themselves is 
whether it contains any possibilities of more bread 
and beer; for they, poor things, are greatly in need 
of both. 

The second class, the Philistines, is by far the most 
important and influential, although it often finds an 
ally and leader in the third. It comprises nearly 
all our successful merchants, great and small, 
financiers, legislators, lawyers, men of letters, and 
doubtless most of our other artists and scientists as 
well. Now, the distinguishing feature of this class 
is generally said to be its complacency, and it is 
just this complacency that I do not believe in. I 
admit that this belief is based solely on my own 
personal observation of a limited number of people 



334 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

who often appear to furnish conflicting testimony. 
Hence my attitude towards it bears no intimate 
relation to, but is utterly different from, my attitude 
towards the central doctrine of this chapter. Let 
me, however, give my opinion for whatever it may 
be worth. 

I have known plenty of Philistines of different 
nationalities and have never remarked that they ate, 
slept, or kept their temper better than any others ; 
that they found their church in better agreement 
with their desires and ambitions; that they gave 
their women especially good reason to rejoice in the 
prospect of their fidelity — one may guess how they 
would generally take this ambiguous clause ; — that 
they were preeminently free from mutual jeal- 
ousies or distinguished for their ease of manner in all 
circles; that they felt pleasantly secure in their 
possessions or in their foothold on the ladder of 
fame. In sum, I have never been able to see any 
truth in the dictum that Philistines are especially 
content with their relation to church, state, society in 
general, matrimony, or to any other form of law to 
which they submit, and that being content in these 
respects, they satisfy their need of change within 
the limits prescribed by law or in regions in which 
law is lax or mainly irrelevant. Moreover, nearly 
every Philistine I have ever known has on occasions 
held up the mirror and seen himself there, Philistine, 
big as life. This act represents the best thought of 
the Philistines and is a death-blow to complacency. 






IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 335 

What I have actually remarked in Philistines is 
not complacency, but a feeling that they have good 
reason to be complacent, — a feeling which naturally 
leads to moments of complete surprise at them- 
selves and at one another. Laws go without saying. 
They obey the laws — at least more conscientiously 
than any others. Hence they should attain as great 
a degree of happiness as is possible in this imperfect 
world of ours. It is of course very irritating to peo- 
ple who take themselves seriously as conscientious 
members of society to find themselves exposed to a 
whole list of disappointments which the most re- 
bellious of sinners may escape. For my own part, I 
believe it is not for nothing that I have witnessed the 
dismal outcome of marriages that had looked suit- 
able, of systems of training that had looked practical, 
of national projects that had looked patriotic, of 
philanthropic schemes that had looked prophetic. 
For I can no longer reproach the Philistines with a 
selfish disregard of the complaints of the minority, 
but must pity the constitutional cowardice and 
stupidity which prevents their taking the first step 
towards a degree of independence commensurate 
with their wits and opportunities. Law we must 
have, at least while we are so many hurtling against 
one another. But just as a man of fifty must look 
sharp to justify his years, so law that has persisted 
for as many centuries must be open to grave sus- 
picion especially when it is proving inconvenient to 
its Philistines. 



336 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

I have been speaking of Philistines as they appear 
in times like the present. We shall see directly 
how they shape in times when they perceive less 
reason for complacency. But meanwhile we should 
briefly rehearse their attitude when confronted, in 
outwardly peaceable times, with such a proposition 
as " Morality must go." Very generally and quite 
simply they call it madness and its author a lunatic ; 
and this is by no means a cowardly judgment. 
Cowardice, or stupidity, has established the point 
of view from which they must regard any proposi- 
tion; but the particular judgment pronounced — 
at all events in the case of morality — is quite sin- 
cere. To most Philistines it is also sufficient, and 
by these the matter may be put aside. Some of the 
learned ones, however, enjoy demolishing at length 
the argument against morality, which is done by 
showing that it contains no explicit answer to certain 
remarks on the subject made by one who has en- 
joyed some twenty centuries of standard immortality. 
Others with a still more pronounced turn for con- 
troversy prove that the author has quite simply and 
consistently been substituting black for white. This 
is an easy and telling refutation, since recognised 
opposites such as black and white need not be other- 
wise denned. Still others, discovering in the text a 
sportive phrase or two such as could never escape 
the pen of one who was dealing seriously with a sub- 
ject like morality, acquit the author of madness and 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 337 

of revolutionary intent alike, and show that he has 
merely been indulging in a sophistic tour de force 
for the amusement of himself and of any who are 
clever enough to guess his meaning. 

Not only are the Philistine's notions of logic 
extremely crude, but it is rare that he will admit at 
the outset that there is a chance for argument in 
favour of a principle that is the opposite of one he has 
been brought up on and has never thought of question- 
ing. The moment he realises that you are entering 
on such an argument, his whole nature is up in arms 
against the beginning of your next statement: he 
has no need to wait for the predicate, for the very 
words with which he is so familiar have a new and 
unreal sound as they come from your lips. If of a 
comparatively placid temper, he listens comfortably, 
heedless of the argument but mildly amused at its 
practical outcome. If of a sympathetic temper, 
he is sorry for you; if neurotic, he protests vehe- 
mently against such obvious absurdities ; or if he is 
endowed with rather more than a Philistine's share 
of curiosity, his efforts to follow the argument will 
probably leave him bewildered and mentally ex- 
hausted. 

For any fancied purposes of action or serious 
thought all Philistia, if left to itself, remains unmoved 
by novel propaganda. We generally describe the 
Philistines as our utilitarian folk, devoted exclu- 
sively to practical pursuits. An equivalent char- 



338 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

acteristic is their reluctance to put any obvious 
series of direct questions to themselves, to the world 
in which they live, or to history. For, indeed, one 
question begets another as waves of the sea beget 
other waves; and all enquiries must either roll out 
to an ocean- wide unknown and so appear futile to 
Philistines or else dash against the rocks of a law 
which they regard as more enduring than does the 
physicist the law of gravity. 

Hence the Philistine's deep distrust of philosophy 
and his curious dictum that philosophy has never 
accomplished anything of general and enduring 
value — as if philosophy were presumably inferior 
in this respect to religion or military science. Hence, 
too, the probability that whatever new tinge his 
attitude of indifference towards novel propaganda 
may receive will be one of resentment. 

I will pass over the practical and unthinking pessi- 
mists — Philistines who desired success above all 
else and failed — as presenting no points of special 
interest in this discussion, and next take up the third 
and smallest, though by no means always the least 
important, subdivision of society. 

Let me name them Idealists, as they have been 
named before, and without reference to current philo- 
sophical terminology. These are people who deal 
extensively in ideas as a jeweller deals in precious 
stones, building them into beautiful ornaments of 
life. Woman is to them an idea, fixed and immu- 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 339 

table ; manhood another such ; and a favourite prob- 
lem is to weld these two ideas into an institution of 
marriage or of free love, as the case may be, that 
shall be finally sanctified and universally revered. 
Similarly, true altruism must always warm the 
cockles of the heart. 

Idealists, like Philistines, are to be found in all 
walks of life : nearly all socialists, probably, belong to 
this class. They despise the Philistines for their 
single-minded devotion to success, but regard them 
as useful, if somewhat clumsy, implements for the 
glorification of truth. So that, when a sufficiently 
large section of the Philistines has been roused by 
the Idealists to the sense of an existing wrong, there 
ensues a religious or social revolution of considerable 
proportions. 

Widely as the Idealists differ among themselves 
as to their formulas for progress or reform, and im- 
moral as some of their acts and doctrines are deemed 
by the Philistines, it is nevertheless pretty certain 
that any such sweeping proposition as "Morality 
must go," if forcibly put, will be greeted by them 
generally with a scream of rage. Though they are 
willing enough to swell the Philistine cry of "lu- 
nacy," the chances are that they will end with 
getting it amended to "criminal lunacy." And if 
they perceive signs of defection in their own ranks 
or of awakening thought amongst the Philistines, 
no effort will be spared to bar the doors of society 



340 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

to the introducer of the unsavoury proposition be- 
fore it has had time to set up a widespread indiges- 
tion of established truths. For the Idealists share 
the Philistine reluctance to put to themselves seri- 
ously any obvious series of questions. An estab- 
lished truth, often hidden and forgotten, is the 
central stone of each of their set pieces. They 
differ from the Philistines in their avowed dissatis- 
faction with society as it is; yet their desire is to 
remodel it on lines that, when all's said and done, 
are essentially classic. 

Their irritation at sweeping propositions is, then, 
readily comprehensible. For it is only natural 
that men who have had to take account of the re- 
peated failure of ideals which they have made it 
their business in life to herald and prepare for should 
have conceived in the back of their minds sufficient 
distrust of these ideals to regard as dangerous any 
systematic attempt to demonstrate that they have 
never been and can never be realised. Passions once 
inflamed, any argument will do. The great point, 
then, is to crush rebellion as speedily as possible 
— to triumph over the rebel for the day and genera- 
tion, regardless of reason or of the consequences to 
posterity. And the devotees of primeval law and 
of ideals derived from it are none the less glad or 
self-righteous in their triumph because they happen 
to know nothing of the rebellious doctrine in question 
and have no idea how they would cope with any 
doctrine whatsoever if left strictly to themselves. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 341 

The above classification of society makes no pre- 
tension to rigorousness ; for it would be idle to deny 
that we have each and all of us more or less of both 
Philistine and Idealist in us, or that we are first and 
foremost the bread-and-beer brothers of the Pro- 
letariat. Here, indeed, is again and inevitably 
suggested the argument for our emancipation from 
primeval law. The purest Philistine, if allowed to 
do as he liked, would look amongst pure Philistines 
for a conjugal mate, for he would not only be suspi- 
cious of other women, but would be refused by them 
if he asked. The purest Idealist would wish his chil- 
dren to be like him and would make his choice ac- 
cordingly. If we admit — what would perhaps be 
denied by either Philistines or Idealists of the purest 
blood — that there are limits to the possibilities of 
both Philistinism and Idealism, we shall see that the 
pure stock of both must in time run to seed. Unen- 
terprising Proletarians of the purest breed would 
also disappear through this and other means. From 
each class, then, would be eliminated the purest of 
its retrograde elements, and the race would be per- 
petuated by those individuals who were most in- 
clined to effect the agreeable exchange of an old 
state of dependence for a new one. 

However rough my classification, and however 
long in coming might be any important results of 
purely elective breeding if unenforced by the other 
processes described above, I believe — to return 



342 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

to the point now under discussion — the picture I 
have drawn of a novel idea before the bar of modern 
society will bear little retouching. What I meant 
by ' ' outwardly peaceable times " should now be clear, 
also that I must regard the present times as no more 
peaceable inwardly than any others. A peaceful 
surface to the times depends upon the strength of the 
traditional illusions that we have been discussing 
relatively to the strength of such other ideas as of 
rational living, imminent famine, national greed, etc. 

Certain conditions, then, are readily conceivable 
under which a novel idea may gain a more extensive 
and dispassionate hearing. 

When a few Philistines become so besotted in their 
devotion to wealth and power that they proceed to 
grab as much of both as they can lay their legal 
hands on, their brothers turn against them and a 
political revolution ensues, perhaps with bloodshed 
but certainly with material and social disadvantages 
to the great bulk of the people involved. 

Similar results may be expected when a clever 
Idealist gains the ear of the Proletariat and formu- 
lates for them, under a suitable disguise, the notions 
of Mine and Thine that prevail in the nursery. 

When a capable warrior arises to lead an aggres- 
sive people, useful lives, valuable material, and 
timely efforts in all sorts of directions may be 
wasted to an even greater extent. 

In all these and many other similar contingencies 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 343 

that are either known to history or liable to material- 
ise at any moment, the bulk of Philistines and 
Idealists alike are put to it to safeguard for the 
future their chosen manners of life. The Idealist 
is in despair over the sordid ugliness of the affair — 
which he may himself have precipitated — and is in 
constant danger of becoming the blackest of pessi- 
mists. The Philistine makes the most strenuous and 
whole-souled efforts to save his property and his 
position, and to ensure suitable surroundings for his 
children ; for his faith in the value of wealth, educa- 
tion, and the existing social scale is an automatic 
process of reasoning which shows him how miser- 
able he would be if the relation of his family to all 
three were considerably altered. 

In the final resolution pretty well everybody 
emerges from the fray scarred and smudged and feel- 
ing that he has come off second best. It is diffi- 
cult for a respectable Philistine to look another 
respectable Philistine in the face because of the un- 
wonted things that both have done in the time of 
stress. It is difficult for two boon companions of 
Idealists to discuss the old projects with the old 
familiarity because each finds that his ideas have 
changed somewhat in the interval. It is difficult 
for the Proletarian to make up his mind who is to 
blame for the fact that he can hardly feed himself, 
let alone wife and children. 

In sum, there has been a loss of confidence. The 



344 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Philistine distrusts the power of church and state to 
secure for him the fruits of his diligence and respect- 
ability; the Idealist distrusts the working value of 
his earlier conceptions of beauty and altruism; the 
Proletarian distrusts both his leaders and his fellow- 
winners of bread and beer. 

While the damage is being reckoned up and the 
most needful repairs undertaken, many a new idea 
takes root in the public mind. Democracy, Chris- 
tianity, Humanity, are some of the curious principles 
that have sprung from such a beginning. However 
elementary they may appear to us who have seen 
them tested, they have at least been new as avowed 
principles ; and the accumulation of a sufficient num- 
ber of such new principles as a heritage of the race 
will inevitably lead to the development of a more 
fundamentally useful idea. The honest thinker 
can bide his time : he never dies, and he has already 
learned enough to be able to beautify his own 
dwelling. If, in the future, a more general upset 
than is now on record again leaves society gazing 
at its shattered homes, ideals, and forms of law, he 
will be there to point out grey-haired Morality 
stalking, like Peer Gynt, amongst the ruins of a 
disorderly life and muttering vainly, "I have always 
endeavoured to be myself." And, if they have got 
eye-peeps to see, Philistine and Idealist will then 
realise that our putting into the mouth of Morality 
so sensible a precept as "Do as you would be done 
by" was a piece of the most cowardly impertinence. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 345 

But there is another possibility, and one more 
agreeable to contemplate. For, if I set up to be an 
honest thinker, I must declare that in the last 
analysis of which I am capable it is a matter of in- 
difference to me whether a certain revolution be a 
bloody one or not, and that in every analysis except 
the last one I find a bloodless revolution more con- 
genial and more reasonable. 

The other possibility may be stated in few words. 
If a single man to-day preaches the desirability of 
rules of conduct more rational than those embodied 
in any known code of morals, general or individual, 
past or present, Eastern or Western, savage or 
civilised, he can hardly expect many listeners in 
either Philistine or Idealist circles. But if a 
hundred good prophets and true keep on dinning 
into Philistine ears: "Look here, you fellows, if you 
don't stop and think a bit, it's perfectly certain that 
somebody will make a rough house of your abode " — 
it is possible that the education of the Philistines 
would begin. It is even possible that all but they 
of pure blood would give such free play to mental 
faculties whose existence was hitherto unsuspected 
as to be able to join in the work of reform for reform's 
sake. And it is far more likely that the bulk of them 
would eventually conclude that the best method of 
keeping some small portion of Philistia intact would 
be to dispense with its outward forms and observances 
as well as with most of its stultifying privileges. 



346 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

Once this were done, it is highly probable that the 
unstable condition of their ancient heritage would 
become apparent to them and that the new obliga- 
tions they must shoulder would at least be more 
welcome than a return to the old drudgery which 
should have led to ultimate satisfaction, but did not. 
" And you other fellows/ 7 — thus our good prophets 
to the Idealists, — "if you won't give over building 
your crowns and coronets of immaculate and undy- 
ing beauty long enough to realise how uncomfortably 
they would sit on any mortal or immortal head, 
you will assuredly go thundering down to posterity 
as the most notorious party of sentimentalists that 
ever spread jealousies and disappointments over a 
credulous age. Beauty dies ; and it is a new beauty 
that is born again. Until you have acknowledged 
that you cannot arrest those processes of nature 
in which man himself has a vital stake, you will be 
debarred from sharing in the best activities of the 
day." Some such threat as this, if elaborated and 
duly emphasised, would probably incite our Idealists 
to redoubled efforts. We may even imagine them 
taking up the challenge in practical fashion and 
zealously organising innumerable little societies be- 
yond the reach of both Philistine and rationalist- 
prophetic influences. In any case, it seems likely 
enough that the process of healthy disillusionment 
for the benefit of posterity would be hastened a good 
deal. 



IMMEDIATE IMPLICATIONS 347 

Any way must be a good way that leads to the 
general adoption of a rational view of death, — a 
more rational view than is now embodied in the will 
to live when nothing is to be gained for posterity, 
and the will to die when there is yet hope. For this 
is the prime need of the day. To satisfy it seems 
a small enough achievement, if we consider what lies 
beyond — an achievement no bigger, doubtless, than 
to rise erect after having always gone on all fours. 
It is nevertheless the first and most obvious concern 
of philosophy, for upon it hangs every problem of our 
social life. Hence the title of this chapter. 



CHAPTER VIII 

THE LOVE OF TRUTH 

This chapter is the record of a series of random 
observations upon life — sheer assertions, some of 
which are so obvious that their sole justification lies 
in the supposedly cumulative effect of iteration. 
For others, less obvious, the justification has 
appeared in the earlier chapters of this book and will 
probably be readily recalled. 

The tone adopted generally will be one that has 
not been conspicuous in the foregoing pages except 
by implication — a tone of discontent, even pessi- 
mism. And the uses of rational pessimism will be 
discussed, it being stipulated that no rational 
optimism is possible without a pessimism on which 
to rest it. As thus, — granted the desirability of 
making as much as possible of this human race of 
ours, contentment may be defined as the hope of les- 
sening discontent. Progress, love, happiness, every- 
thing that is worth having upon Earth is completely ' 
dependent upon discontent. Without pausing again 
to apologise for the exceeding triteness of this state- 
ment — which is but one of our many local and in- 
adequate expressions of the law of continuous 

348 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 349 

change — I will forthwith make elaborate prepara- 
tions for a definition of the love of truth. 

A satisfactory definition, even for the immediate 
purposes of a few more days of life, is doubtless 
impossible ; for observe the implications of this law 
of continuity. A conception has been defined as 
"that which may be maintained in thought." This 
definition is perhaps convenient enough considering 
the limitations of language. But it is to be remem- 
bered that what is so maintained may never in itself 
or in its subject-matter remain the same, but must 
continuously be replaced by something which is new 
by virtue of the replacement. A true conception, 
relatively speaking, must ever lead to new concep- 
tions in the course of which process it is itself 
modified. If it ever becomes rounded off and sus- 
ceptible of complete and satisfactory expression in 
words, its usefulness is departed: it is no longer a 
conception. In sum, nobody may flatter himself 
that he has a true conception unless he persistently 
tracks down its implications and finds ever new ones 
running before him to show that all along he has 
been at fault. 

Concerning truth, then, and the love of it, we must 
speak relatively. Truths are exceedingly various 
in nature and in practical importance; and the 
particular truth possessing the greatest practical 
importance is the one that finally removes from con- 
sideration the greatest amount of earlier truth. My 



350 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

definition of the love of truth will be an indirect one, 
by means of particular examples and comparisons 
which may serve to show the varied nature of this 
love and so amount to a useful definition. 

In some of these examples is involved our racial 
belief in the supernatural. Hence a further intro- 
duction seems desirable. 

In the light of that most general truth which alone 
possesses ultimate validity, we have seen the super- 
natural and all other final causes relegated to the 
category of conceptions of impossible illusions. If a 
divinity were suddenly to appear in the sky before 
some thousands of us, perform other superhuman 
deeds, reveal unsuspected truths, and end with 
proclaiming itself the creator of the universe, we 
should doubtless be greatly puzzled by the occur- 
rence, but we could not accept the divinity's account 
of itself. Indeed we must discredit this account 
more promptly than we discredit the testimony of our 
senses as to a hammer — that it is, once and for all, 
wood and iron shaped conveniently for the business 
of hammering. For our divinity and its proclama- 
tion would constitute a particular experience conflict- 
ing with the testimony of all other experiences. 
Not until it should have manifested itself for long 
ages in every single detail of all our lives, leaving 
no possible room for doubt, backsliding, apostasy, 
could we begin seriously to consider it as a factor 
ultimately to be reckoned with. 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 351 

I shall soon bring under consideration some of the 
present consequences of similar concrete apparitions 
which are said to have been experienced in the past. 
Meanwhile let me give a definition, mainly classical, 
of the supernatural, and a similar explanation of the 
origin of our belief in it. 

The supernatural, like the universe of one dimen- 
sion, was invented or irresistibly suggested as an 
explanation of the omnipresent and inexorable un- 
known. That extra-terrestrial critic who has already 
been invoked upon more than one occasion would un- 
doubtedly infer from knowledge of but a few of the 
conditions of our existence that we must, some of us 
all the time and all of us some of the time, both love 
and fear the supernatural. What with certain facts 
of which we are all aware : as love of one another, as 
death, as the inexplicable divergence of individuals 
from typical character, as the unaccountable ad- 
vent of benefits ardently desired, as the unac- 
countable visitation of calamities when men were 
killing and stealing; and what with certain con- 
ditions of our activities of which we are, on any 
given occasion, partially or wholly unaware : as the 
tendency, embodying present discontent, to magnify 
the performance of past generations ; as the cumula- 
tive distortion of impressions received simultaneously 
by numbers of people reacting upon one another 
while in the grip of a powerful emotion : — it is in- 
evitable that gods and witches, genii, heroes, and 



352 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

devils, should rise and hold us in their phantasmal 
sway; that all descriptions of unthinkable and un- 
desirable hells and heavens should be intensely 
feared or impulsively desired. 

At a time when those principles called scientific 
had not yet prevailed upon the generality of men to 
bring any great measure of reason into their efforts to 
account for any events of their lives, their visions 
of the supernatural might, under the appropriate 
conditions, possess vividness of beauty or of horror 
in an indefinite degree up to the point where life 
would no longer support them. That such was 
indeed the case is abundantly proved by those relics 
of past ages at which we now gaze with alien or 
profane admiration. For the religions issuing from 
these miracles of revelation were long ago outgrown 
and, most of the time since, have subsisted upon 
ignorance, cupidity, and the force of habit. Revivals 
there are, especially when the world has had an over- 
dose of reason; likewise ingenious modifications 
and revisions ; but, unsafe as is generally any forecast 
of the immediate future, it seems quite within the 
bounds of prudence to predict that the net result, 
in this future, of all revivals of and reactions against 
any religion based upon god or devil will be a decline 
of this religion as an influence among men. 

But this is not to say that the god and the devil 
will necessarily disappear along with the church 
and the mosque. On the contrary, it seems highly 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 353 

probable that they will lurk in the back of our mind 
long after we have openly and seriously repudiated 
them. For how shall any one of us of to-day, clearly 
recognising the crudity and insufficiency of divinity, 
ignoring the tiresome analogies put forward in the 
hope of a close alliance with more advanced con- 
ceptions, — how shall such a one know when he may 
be called upon to humble himself before the god that 
is deep-rooted in his past ? Though he fancy he has 
come scathless through the gantlet of extreme 
anguish, fear, resentment, let Fate, the Inquisitor, 
play upon him a more subtly nasty trick than any 
he could have dreamed of — which is always pos- 
sible, even in the days of enlightened arrogance — 
and I warrant he goes down on his knees. 

Now to our instances of the love of truth. Let a 
man fancy that the particular love of truth to which 
he happens to be faithful is the only such love in 
existence, and he will not understand these instances. 
Probably, however, no such person will have read 
these pages ; and to others the instances may be of 
interest if they are not too stale or obvious. 

I have heard that a burglar was once caught because 
he stopped to write a note to the head of the family 
in which he said that he scorned to take the children's 
moneys and small trinkets. 

Shibli Bagarag, at the court of Oolb, having good 
reasons of his own for concealing his identity, was so 
moved at the sight of barber's tackle that he be- 

2a 



354 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

trayed himself in his impatience to execute a good 
job upon the unshaved king and courtiers. 

John chid Peter for thanking the Lord for his 
dinner while so many were starving. He called this 
a colossal affectation, saying, " Thank your own wits, 
if you like, or your parents or your employers; 
but that you should really thank the Lord is beyond 
belief." And again he chid him for praying to the 
Lord for strength to resist temptation, saying, " You 
may yield to temptation; others are yielding even 
now. Is it not surely the height of presumption in 
you to notify your omnipresent and omniscient Lord 
of the occasions upon which you should be given 
strength to resist? Did He not endow you with 
reason which enabled you to recognise presumption 
and affectation and other undesirable acts in others ; 
and is it not by this means that you and your fellow- 
men have risen from a more brutal state?" Peter 
replied to these chidings that the reported words of 
the emissaries of his god possessed for him sufficient 
evidence of inspiration to impel him to pray and to 
give thanks in accordance with their spirit, so far 
as he might understand it, and to hope that the 
perseverence of enlightened and pure-minded men 
might be the means of an indefinite elucidation of 
those passages which were now contradictory or 
inscrutable. To which John retorted that masses of 
men of an intelligence quite equal to Peter's and less 
hampered by racial talent for success, were observ- 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 355 

ing more strictly the letter and the spirit of their 
faith, which was quite different from Peter's and 
hostile to it ; furthermore, that other masses of men 
of equal intelligence and practical usefulness were 
insensible of the alleged evidence of inspiration in the 
written words of either faith ; hence, of two different 
faiths alike conspicuous for their seeming denial of 
that reason which they signalised as a divine gift, it 
was impossible to say which was the better or that 
either was helpful to its votaries. He then reminded 
Peter of his religious upbringing and pointed out 
that he was presumably incompetent to judge of the 
alleged inspiration of the words of his faith, as were 
presumably his parents and his grandparents and 
possibly also his entire ancestry for many generations 
back. Peter replied that it was natural he should 
walk in the way of his fathers, especially as he had 
never learned of a better. And this ended the dis- 
cussion. But it was now necessary that Peter should 
chide John as to his accounts, which were in a great 
tangle, and John was neglecting them. Peter 
offered his help ; he was able and pertinacious ; and 
the end of the matter was that John's accounts were 
made up for him by Peter. 

At the meeting of a society of learned men, a paper 
was being read to show that Tacitus and Suetonius 
had considerably exaggerated the licentiousness of 
the period of which they wrote. But the reader had 
not gone far into the matter before he was interrupted 



356 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

by a minister of the Christian religion who rose, 
trembling with indignation, and thus appealed to the 
chair: "Sir, I protest against the reading before this 
meeting of any paper tending to palliate the vices 
of imperial Rome." Some dismay was apparent 
among the coreligionists of the protesting minister, 
from which it might have been gathered that he was 
a better lover of truth in his way than were his 
judges, who ignored their own less obvious cranks 
and simulations. 

We smile when the minister, with upturned face, 
delivers himself thus: "Paradoxical as it may seem, 
Lord, it is nevertheless true. . . . " Yet it is pre- 
cisely this sort of thing that we are all doing to our 
gods, day in and day out : insulting their omniscience 
with prayers not to forget us; discrediting their 
omnipotence with protestations of loyalty or hints of 
virtue unrewarded or sufferings intolerable ; accusing 
them of vaingloriousness with the idolatry of bowed 
head and bended knee. Aged degenerates sun 
themselves, as occasion warrants, in the peace that is 
their Lord's, when all is turmoil outside their narrow 
circle, ay and outside the narrow interval in which 
they are permitted so to bask. Disappointed women 
hug their Saviour to their breasts ; and, when return- 
ing hope enables them to dispense with this ideal 
comfort, regard their desertion as an act of weakness 
indeed, though by no means to be invalidated. 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 357 

And so on, ad infinitum. For some obvious reason or 
other the doll-like role of divinity has never been a 
nice one, and nobody could ever have enjoyed play- 
ing it or expected to carry it, with its rags, tatters, 
and stains of scratched and smudgy fingers, beyond 
the threshold of the nursery. 

The man who said, "An honest god is the noblest 
work of man/' must — if he had any serious expecta- 
tions in the matter — have ignored one of the 
negative necessities of the case. For if men are 
themselves too timid for any but the smallest and 
rarest doses of theoretical honesty, a god that may be 
set up by any considerable number of them must in- 
evitably lag far behind their best thought. 

These considerations, like all others of the sort, 
bring us back to nature — which, in the case of men, 
generally means back to Fear. For it is always the 
dishonesty arising from this dread of death and 
suffering that makes life dull to the spectator and 
distressing to the actor. The actor need only be 
mentioned: he will agree to much distress; whilst 
the candid spectator will not pretend that the acts or 
utterances of our politicians, jurists, philanthropists, 
or men of letters are in the main interesting. If said 
spectator could know everybody in the world, he 
would doubtless find so much of interest that he could 
at once set about making the world interesting to all. 
in that degree of which it is immediately capable. 
As it is, he must take the best that is available in the 



358 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

art of all ages, and even then will he be conscious of a 
mighty void. 

Everybody can recall instances, similar to those 
cited, of contrasts between the different loves of 
different truths. There are many known shades of 
theoretical truth, and perhaps as many of practical 
or material truth; the contrasts between these two 
classes of truth are sometimes very sharp, and there 
is no reason to believe that an ardent lover of the one 
will have any conspicuous attentions for the other. 
The relative prominence of the two motives in indi- 
viduals depends, of course, upon temperament and 
surroundings; at best, we know very little even of 
that little which our neighbours pretend to know 
about themselves, so that no satisfactory generalisa- 
tion on the subject based upon observation is possible. 
Certain theoretical considerations, however, render 
it probable that the honest theorist may be just as 
big a practical liar as the dishonest theorist or as he 
who evades theories altogether ; and especially that 
he who most signally misconstrues, and so is alarmed 
by, the implications of the soundest theory may be a 
relatively scrupulous truth-teller in the affairs of 
actual life. 

For, in the first place, the honest theorist regards 
any event from one — or successively from all — 
of at least three separate and easily distinguishable 
levels of thought. The highest of these is the level 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 359 

of emotional indifference, of abstract curiosity, — 
what, for evolutionary purposes, may be called the 
level of rational optimism. This level is like the 
summit of the Matterhorn; it is the least frequently 
attained, life there may not be indefinitely pro- 
longed, and the gradations between this and the next 
lower levels are the sharpest. Far below lies the 
Vispthal, the valley of everyday needs, where the 
wood is to be chopped, the cheese to be made, the 
marrying and giving in marriage. Here is theory 
of small account, and the facts in any case are 
definite and significant. Midway between the two is 
the Schwarzsee, the level of rational pessimism. 

Now, the walk from the Vispthal to the Schwarzsee 
is an easy and obvious one ; the zealous walker ar- 
rives unexpectedly early and may look forward to 
more such afternoons without number. But why 
should he desire repeated visits to this sombre lake ? 
Because, I suppose, he is of the enterprising who 
will not be for ever shut in by the unthinkable walls 
of Vispthal. Grim though the Schwarzsee, it images 
those lovely dazzling crests which are denied to the 
imprisoned Visp; and the mere sight of these and 
then of Visp, a thin, fuming futility in an ancient 
cage, calls up the hidden hamlet and wakes rebellion 
in the breast. From hence the prospect is not so 
wide that the rude hut called home may be regarded 
calmly in its inevitable relation to the general 
scheme of the land. It is a thing to be railed at, 






360 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

violently abused ; to be torn down and replaced by 
a better if possible, but at all events to be abused : 
foresight and common sense demand this. 

In fact, the Vispthal has greatly changed of late : 
some think for the worse ; I do not agree with these. 
Squalor is no longer there; the scanty pasturage 
and sparse fir-woods are no longer deemed worthy 
of attention; new architectural excrescences have 
appeared, some hideous, others noisy, and these are 
not thought to be satisfactory as such. 

Certain it is that habitual frequenters of the 
Schwarzsee of pessimism are less likely to make good 
wood-choppers or cheese-makers, head-waiters or 
railway guards, husbands or fathers, than they 
whose visits are rare or forced. As to the facts in any 
case where definiteness is demanded by their work- 
aday fellows, they are prone to be scornful of those 
conditions of life which make possible the telling of 
the obvious lie as well as of the consequences of the 
lie to others. They show, furthermore, a lack of 
interest in such truth as is most commonly expected 
of them, and are disposed to doubt if it really serves 
its purposes. If they are travellers, they know that 
whenever, on returning from a foreign land, they de- 
scribe faithfully what they saw there in the language 
of their own, they are likely to convey essentially 
false impressions which might have been averted by 
departures from the literal truth or by judicious 
falsehood. Or if they are historians of a bygone 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 361 

age or painters of a landscape viewed under ex- 
ceptional conditions, or if they are quite simply 
narrating the most ordinary of occurrences in their 
own day and in their own community, they are al- 
ways aware of the impossibility, when nothing like 
the whole truth may be known and shown, of satis- 
factorily serving the spirit of material truth by 
faithful observance of its obvious suggestions. 

Hence they should be more prone than another 
to lie themselves out of any tiresome difficulty of 
everyday existence, especially if the difficulty be 
obstructive of honest theorising. If they are the 
most honest and pertinacious of theorists and have 
climbed the Matterhorn, they should certainly not 
be inclined to a turbulent life, but should instead 
prove the most rational and unselfish of law-breakers, 
whose effect upon posterity may be incalculable. 

For it is not by cheese-making or by wood-chop- 
ping or by any other manner of minding one's own 
business that reforms in thought, speech, or govern- 
ment are brought about. Nor is the business of 
cheese-making or of governing even sufficient to sup- 
port itself ; for no amount of attention to the busi- 
ness of either, through no matter how many genera- 
tions of men, will result in an indefinite improvement 
in its products. For the improvement of cheeses or 
of governments it has been found that violent abuse 
and abstract curiosity are alike indispensable ; hence 
the two levels of rational pessimism and rational 



362 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

optimism which are more or less familiar to those 
necessary adjuncts of any society called honest 
theorists. 

From the above considerations it would seem 
inevitable that they who have not breathed the pure 
air and over-rare of the Matterhorn should set greater 
store by the appearances of the valaisian life below ; 
should make more of their loves and hates; and 
should ascribe a greater definiteness and importance 
to immediate questions of fact. 

We have now to consider some of the well-known 
menaces to theoretical truth, to material truth, 
and to both. And let us first examine in its 
general aspect the choice constantly imposed upon 
truth-lovers — as we are all of us in our way — be- 
tween conservatism and radicalism. Here is a loaf, 
or a wife, or a battle, whose fate depends upon my 
decision of the moment. I must act, — and in a 
way that conforms either to the known principles, 
egoistical or altruistical, of my fathers, or else to a 
departure, egoistical or altruistical, from these prin- 
ciples that originated in my own or in some other 
rebellious mind. 

Conservatism, regarded as an end, not as a means 
to radical change, means the clinging to that which 
is of necessity worthless. 

Radicalism is essentially inexact; its results are 
invariably different from its expectations. It means 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 363 

the straining after that which will prove either 
retrograde — what we call worse than worthless — 
or else adaptable to practice in the future, near or 
remote. 

In theory the choice is not difficult, for conserva- 
tism has no existence in theory. 

But in immediate practice, seriously to espouse 
radicalism means to be prepared to sacrifice one's 
own life and the lives of both friends and enemies, 
not because of the nature of radicalism, which is the 
law of all nature, but because of the inevitable 
opposition of conservatism. One of the tried con- 
servatist weapons that is always turned against 
the political radical is that resounding catchword 
which we have already considered at some length — 
the "sacredness of human life." If the radical in 
question be a serious or a determined one, the result 
of the conflict is generally war, death, and desolation. 
But alack, the poor radical! He is more often 
determined than serious, more often frantic than 
determined ; and in any case his life-prospects are not 
bright. For he is the rising man, generically ; hence 
the odds are always heavily against him, individually. 
The spine of human nature being still of a stiffness 
almost prehistoric, he that bends it in the slightest 
will probably break his own back in the attempt. 

Now, society, if you like, is as it should be : what 
is is right. But looking and thinking long on this 
Tightness, you shall know that if none of us to-day 



364 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

can with decent composure make any new experi- 
ment, whether in politics, art, physics, or philan- 
thropy, it is because of our blushful efforts to evade 
the law of change. 

Here, then, is an incentive of incentives : the in- 
centive to obey. Your greeds, hates, and ambitions 
may be the fiercest of the day: futile you know 
them in proportion to their fierceness; sickly cold 
with gratification; chiefly significant in their long 
painfulness and momentary bliss, and in the second 
and the third alternation. Such are the lives of 
our children, appropriate to the degree of their 
experience. 

Backward into children, however, we may not 
grow, nor backward through the centuries. We may 
not even wish for this reversal, for we may never 
take the first backward step in act or in thought. 
We may yearn to the beauty and fresh contrasts of 
the child, knowing that these are no more for us; 
in a marble Pieta we may recognise a power of 
pathos that turns our actual woes to flesh-and-blood 
banalities; heroic verse and painted cardinals — 
do we know of greater differences ? — alike remind 
us of the relative drabness of our age. But modern 
maturity once attained, we find that nothing is 
possible but a still more modern maturity in which, 
indeed, childhood and heroism may become to us 
more vivid, but inevitably and desirably from the 
view-point of maturity and modernity. We literally 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 365 

could not exist in the days of the marble Pieta ; the 
blessing of any cardinal who might be painted so 
wondrously would doubtless consign us to our graves. 

Thus we may dwell fondly on the remotest, and in 
the eyes of our neighbour perhaps the most unlikely, 
of consummations ; we may confidently believe that 
the last and best of knowers will know our heroes and 
cardinals far better than they knew themselves ; but 
we may not desire an impossibility. And the more 
completely we succeed in bringing forward our past 
for future contemplation, the more abhorrent be- 
comes the futility of a retrogression into this past. 

To recur, now, for a moment to one of the most 
conspicuous and indispensable of our childlike 
eccentricities which is aptly described in the words 
of the poet : 

"Lead me to the precipice, 
And bid me leap the dark abyss : 

I care not what the danger be, 
So my beloved, my beauteous vision, 

Be but the prize I bear with me, 
For she to Paradise can turn Perdition." 

He who has escaped the sublime egoism of this 
mania has missed the best there is in the actual 
living of life and will doubtless be suitably recom- 
pensed after the dying of death. It is said that 
certain exceptional individuals have maintained 
emotion upon the plane of this stanza throughout 
a considerable portion of their lives. These, then, 
have other things to learn; but, to the rest of us, 



366 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

one of the most interesting feats of knowledge will 
be the ascertaining of the quality of that past ex- 
perience which has made possible such a monotony 
of egoism. The poet himself seems to regard it as 
of exceptional occurrence, for he has much advice 
to give of the following nature : 

"If thou the love of the world for thyself wouldst gain, 
mould thy breast 
Liker the world to become, for its like the world loveth 
best." 

Repeatedly to vaunt the uses of philosophy is 
perhaps presumptuous, yet not altogether without 
benefit. Philosophy, as is well known, may also 
scorn the precipice and again, like love, turn pale. 
A comparison of the two influences in average men 
of to-day would doubtless reveal love's triumph the 
oftenest; yet lovers and philosophers have already 
said enough to convince us that the conflict wavers 
with the point of view, — point of view of the indi- 
vidual, point of view of the moment. Let him who 
witnesseth the exaltation of the one to the abasement 
of the other expect at any moment a reversal of 
fortunes. 

Now, the scope of theory, based upon the first 
principle of continuous change, is unlimited; it 
may dispel any superstition whatsoever. But such 
theory must generally be kept to the theorist. In 
certain past ages theory might do no more than 
supplant one superstition with another. In the 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 367 

present age, when the best thought is scientific, new 
superstitions have indeed comparatively little chance 
of taking root ; but, on the other hand, first principles 
must be generally neglected. Doctrines that have 
originated anywhere but in a remote past or an up- 
to-date laboratory are regarded as either dull or 
dangerous. For attacking the most interesting of 
all problems, and the one bearing the most power- 
fully upon every detail of our daily life, one-half 
the world equips itself with well-seasoned supersti- 
tions, the other half with well-oiled machines. 
First-principle theory, though aware of their incom- 
petence without her aid, is never lacking in gratitude 
to both machines and superstitions which supply 
her with varied incentives. She must, however, be 
content with scant recognition in return. Neither 
in church nor in college is there fostering of the 
curious mind that has not for the subject of its re- 
search some visible, tangible thing, as a book or a 
brachiopod. The remoteness of reality and differ- 
ences of opinion as to the knowable cause us to 
instruct our intelligent youth to confine their efforts 
to the business of improving their knowledge of 
that which we call fact. We think them safer thus, 
and, according to most machinists and superstition- 
ists, we are all in a highly precarious situation at any 
time. This task of improving their knowledge of 
"the known" upon which we start our patient youth, 
requires that they shall brush past some of the most 



368 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

obvious implications of this known which might lure 
them into by-paths where wise men fear to tread. 
Not even shall their leisure moments be given to such 
unprofitable and possibly perilous excursions; far 
better that they devote them to rhetoric, that most 
tried exorcist of importunate queries. Thus it is 
that politics and faith alike are approached with that 
lack of seriousness and excess of gravity which are so 
conspicuous in our intellectual life. 

Theory at the political dinner table requires a 
sleeve to smile in ; otherwise the bones of scorn and 
reprobation will assuredly be flung at her head. 
Time and again has she made bold to tell both politi- 
cians and machinists that the eye is the deceiver, the 
mind the corrector; that what is most distinctly 
visible or solidly palpable is ipso facto most conspicu- 
ously illusory; that not alone by the weighing of 
policies and the measuring of energy may they ever 
come to that apprehension of the imponderable and 
immeasurable which will strengthen and enhance 
all their material activities; that to every fallacy 
in their dreams, a score invade each waking moment. 
She is perhaps not denied ; is sometimes even assented 
to. But rhetoric then wags her to the foot of the 
table with a mighty swish of glowing axioms, rudi- 
ments of knowledge; and finally he says, "All this 
you say is neither here nor there," only in a humorous 
and pungent manner defying contradiction. For the 
snubbing of theory is often a side-splitting perform- 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 369 

ance, in the course of which even superstitions may- 
be cheerfully forgotten. 

The flow of words, rhetorical and otherwise, from 
friendly sources and hostile, to which theory is at all 
times exposed, constitutes another serious menace 
to her existence upon Earth. Leaving out of account 
the inevitable self-assertiveness of man, the current 
justification of such extreme loquacity is that by 
this means useful ideas are developed. It is to be 
observed, however, that so many words have already 
been spoken and copied into books that numbers of 
our learned ones declare they never hear anything 
novel. They may believe the novel to be there, 
some of it in their own minds ; but when it comes to 
be uttered, it somehow gets diverted into ancient 
channels of speech which conceal its identity. 
Hence theory protests in self-defence that if our 
youth were counselled to think twice before speaking 
instead of speaking twice in the hope of an idea, — 
the latter being the general practice of their fathers 
in attacking any but the most immediately personal 
questions, — their conversation might indefinitely 
gain new advantages of utility and vivacity. 

Another renowned and mighty foe to theory is 
what we call, perhaps not altogether fairly, "the 
wisdom of age." Young people seem often to 
possess it in marked degree. However, a genius 
grown old is apt to lose much of his desire for a 
"clean sweep" of existing institutions. His judg- 

2B 



370 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

ment may have grown less robust, and he may have 
received honours and wealth, i.e. grown into the 
habit of living the life that is made for him rather 
than the life that was his mature choice. How to 
prevent a loss of robustness of judgment with 
advancing years is indeed a difficult problem which 
will not here be discussed. To the genius, however, 
one aid to a happy decline would be his resolution to 
accept as few prescriptions as possible from them 
who are so clearly in need of his own prescriptions. 

The genius or wisdom of old age, as we generally 
know it in fact, is a canny wisdom less likely, for 
example, to plunge a nation into civil strife than is 
the genius of youth. The narrower term of remaining 
life appears to conduce to a narrower view of poster- 
ity and to a higher estimate of the importance of 
immediate concerns. Hence, amongst a race that 
has not attained to as rational a view of death as 
is immediately within its reach, the wisdom of age 
is naturally approved in the cooler moments of 
youth and age alike. 

Now, the " clean sweep," as has been pointed out, 
will leave the stable still very dirty, far from Utopian. 
But, such as it is, it is perfectly certain to come; 
it is likely, moreover, to be pretty rapid and thor- 
ough according to its lights. For, once morality 
is seriously and generally discredited, the spirit of 
compromise is done for, and every existing institu- 
tion from architecture to education must be entirely 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 371 

reformed. May the genius, then, whether musical 
or political, stick to his clean sweep through thick 
and thin, through youth and old age ; only by this 
means may his characteristic sanity and common 
sense be preserved, to say nothing of his peace of 
mind. Our civilisation is certainly not worth taking 
for granted, and they who take it so are much worse 
off than the others who fall in the course of attacks 
upon its strongholds. Root and branch, everything 
is worse than it need be. What more obvious than 
to make it all better ? 

But one more of the many obstacles in the path 
of knowledge will here be mentioned. This one is 
older than history, though its proportions vary from 
age to age. To some who are spoken of as profiting 
by it, it remains invisible. Others who are spoken 
of as being especially hindered by it are sometimes 
roused to fury by the sight of it. Even the conspicu- 
ously dishonest make capital out of their assaults 
upon it ; and probably no philosopher worthy of the 
name has omitted at some time or other to rant at it 
like a very demagogue. By it the way is barred 
to each separate column of truth ; theoretical truth, 
the letter of material truth, the spirit of material 
truth. Every colour of practical honesty and dis- 
honesty is rallied to its defence, and in the attacking 
army are their blood-brothers. 

Of so celebrated an excrescence in the rugged 
surface of human affairs it is hardly to be expected 



372 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

that anything essentially novel should now be said. 
It is well, though, to go on reiterating its rightful 
name which is the fear of a too sudden abolition or 
reapportionment of the material prizes of civilisa- 
tion. Its victims are the greater portion, though by 
no means all, of those who possess a considerable 
property or influence. Amongst them are a handful 
of individuals competent, by training, opportunity, 
and inclination, to organise and control the govern- 
ments of peoples; and these few protect and are 
protected by the numbers of their class which in- 
cludes all the spendthrifts, misers, drones, and 
respectable nonentities, as well as most of the 
rhetoricians, of the Earth. Nearly all of them 
have received the education belonging to the age, 
and their wealth enlists in their service both edu- 
cated and uneducated outsiders who do not approve 
of the other uses of this wealth. 

Whether a considerable curtailment of the material 
and social privileges of this class would, at the present 
stage of human development, mean political and 
social anarchy until another such class arose, is a 
question often publicly discussed by its members, 
most of whom, however, do not need to put this 
question seriously to themselves, the personal motive 
sufficing to determine both action and utterance. 
It is not, of course, that they are pre-eminently happy 
in their eminence, but that they dread the misery 
of poverty, loss of influence, or death, for themselves 



THE LOVE GF TRUTH 373 

or for their friends. For there are many among 
them who would fear but little for themselves alone ; 
and with these it is the thought of family and friends 
which enables them to overlook the greater and 
actual misery of others. 

Now, a little knowledge is perhaps a dangerous 
thing; but the unfortunate point about these 
privileged victims is that the bigger and newer the 
knowledge the more dangerous does it appear to 
them. Any discovery, whether in a book or a brachi- 
opod, which, though avowedly partial and unpreten- 
tious, makes, nevertheless, an advance in knowledge 
sufficiently great to entail some overhauling of gen- 
eral conceptions, may indirectly exert a considerable 
influence upon stocks, tithes, and elections. Hence 
this renowned and world-old conspiracy of wealth 
and power, this stanch fraternal despotism which 
often relishes the strenuous lashing of the dema- 
gogue but misdoubts the patient tapping of the 
investigator. 

It is doubtful if, for some time past, the conspira- 
tors have exchanged so much as a wink or a nod. 
The. wink and the nod are of a humiliating vulgar- 
ity besides being wholly unnecessary. Even those 
supporters of the old regime who are unaware that 
any conspiracy exists have come to behave auto- 
matically in a manner that furthers its purposes. 
Such incurious optimists are, for the most part, on 
the outskirts of their class ; and even theory, to say 



374 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

nothing of demagogues, must preach at them that 
they are of no more avail for bettering the condition 
of the race, their descendants, than are those pessi- 
mists that gape or howl at every obstacle. Such 
incurious optimists will never climb the Matterhorn. 
Human life upon Earth is made possible by pessi- 
mism ; if we have none of this, we must get some, or 
else degenerate — die of our own stagnation before 
death overtakes us. 

The ambitious efforts of our eminent brethren to 
evade the law of change are doubtless a fit subject 
for ridicule which, however, requires a transcendental 
wit to wield it. While to jest of the hereafter to 
those who are mourning their dead is in bad taste; 
while the unhappiness of the rich is so far from 
despicable that millions make it their sole aim in 
life; while those who attend political gatherings 
look for thunderous oratory to play about the surface 
of their complaints, but are stunned and angry if the 
lightning strikes near their individual homes ; finally, 
while licensed educators believe in their impotence, 
as they doubt their willingness, to surround these 
view-points with the impassable barriers of theory, 
— so long will the earnest reformer be constrained 
to don the gravity of the judge or, at best, the grave 
playfulness of the diner-out; otherwise his efforts 
will probably be construed as an intellectual exercise 
whimsically indulged in for his own amusement and 
not to be seriously considered in connexion with the 



THE LOVE OF TRUTH 375 

stern business of life. But even with gravity donned 
and fitting like a glove, his task, whether congenial 
or not, will certainly be an arduous one. If, for 
example, he points out the starving drunkard and 
his invalid children, and pessimistically desires af- 
fluence and influence to bring about the impartial 
chloroforming of both, it is more than likely that the 
finger of influence will be laid on the nose, the hand 
of affluence thrust in the pocket, and the result will 
be a meal for the drunkard and a home for his and 
other invalid children. Where affluence and in- 
fluence are concerned, ocular evidence is the thing. 



CHAPTER IX 

STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 

I began with certainties ; i.e. my first two chapters 
contained little else than statements of the ultimate 
principle of Change and accounts of its origin in 
thought. In the third chapter I was also dealing 
with this certainty which enabled me definitively 
to remove from consideration such questions as the 
Whence, the Why, and the What of the universe. 
But much the greatest portion of this chapter was 
devoted to the How of the universe, and here I was 
treating of particular probabilities and possibilities — 
logically and mathematically so far as logic and 
mathematics might apply; the first principle being 
invoked whenever logic and mathematics pointed to 
it directly. 

The subject-matter of the remaining chapters has, 
for the most part, been of a still more particular or 
speculative character. In these chapters the facts 
of life have been considered in a relation more 
immediate than that of their ultimate basis or impli- 
cations. Here again the logical method is seen at 
work, checked from time to time by ultimate theory : 

376 



STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 377 

the results may be roughly summarised in the 
equation, 

Rational Life = Fact [ TO . p . — r-r-)- 
VFirst Principle/ 

The data, of course, are dubious : Fact being invari- 
ably illusory except as a whole ; Logic, a delightful 
and indispensable factor but with vexatious limita- 
tions imposed by the necessity that all existence 
possesses ultimate significance; First Principle, 
unimpeachable in itself but reserved and taciturn 
in the company of an embryonic race. Hence the 
most plausible exposition of a rational life may not 
be invested with an extreme degree of probability. 

The above recapitulation is by way of disclaiming 
an absolute intent in such phrases as "It is certain" 
when applied to events that are expected to happen 
within a definite period of time. I have not used 
"It is nearly certain" or "It is highly probable" 
in such cases because I have meant to indicate the 
degree of probability that is commonly expressed by 
"It is certain." Every "It is certain" now in 
literature will eventually have to be eaten, and I do 
not wish to suggest that mine will be the first to go. 
The one absolute certainty has been so often and 
variously stated in the course of these pages that 
ambiguity can hardly arise from my adoption of 
the usual practice. 

I have also thought that the freer, less rigorous, 
manner of treatment of the later and more speculative 



378 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

portions of the work would be more readily compre- 
hensible in the light of such a recapitulation. Of 
course I have not meant to imply that policies of 
education, government, philanthropy, etc., should 
not be painstakingly developed. What I have 
indeed meant to imply is that the policies now most 
urgently in demand and most painstakingly to be 
developed are destructive in character; that the 
first article in any programme should be a disavowal 
of any seemingly positive or permanent elements 
in this programme; that any programme for the 
adults of the race should be rated the higher as there 
is less of discipline and government in it. 

Three more points in the literary style of this work 
should perhaps be explained. 

LONG SENTENCES 

Given language (or, at any rate, the English 
language) as it is, a natural deduction from this 
philosophy would seem to be that the terser or 
pithier the phrase, the lower its value. Catchwords 
and striking labels must be eschewed and all terms 
taken with plenty of salt. I cannot place unbounded 
confidence in this deduction ; * but I am tolerably 
certain that, for any satisfactory exposition of this 
philosophy, long sentences must be the main depend- 
ence. 

1 Modesty should prevent me from giving, as a reason for this 
doubt, my humble belief that I was a very bad writer. 



STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 379 

When our minds are constantly liable to wander 
from the printed page, it is the terse or pithy phrase 
that has the best chance of fixing the attention and 
impressing the memory; and conversely, long sen- 
tences, even when constructed with the utmost care, 
are apt to prove troublesome to the reader unless the 
subject-matter is of absorbing interest. Here, I 
suspect, is one of the unresolved discords of all phi- 
losophy, and the resolution of it should prove an 
engrossing task to future writers. 

THE GENERIC "WE" 

I can imagine a conventional philosopher or scorn- 
ful critic saying of me, "The author makes a free and 
altogether unjustifiable use of the generic 'we.' 
He assures us that 'we regard as out of the question ' 
certain contingencies which, I must protest, we do 
in fact regard as quite within the bounds of possi- 
bility. We are told that 'we cannot accept the 
traditional explanation of this occurrence ' when it is 
precisely the traditional explanation of it that most 
of us do accept." 

I should expect such comments as these from any 
who had funked the first three chapters of the book 
and begun attentively with what they regarded as 
its sole practical outcome. And from others who 
had made a conscientious effort to read the whole 
book I should perhaps expect the following: "The 
generic 'we' is here seen in the most curious and 



380 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

kaleidoscopic combinations. On one page 'we' are 
the stout adherents of the most incredibly radical 
dogma, and on the next, lo ! 'we' have become Tory 
in the extreme, the bitterest opponents of our earlier 
belief. Who, pray, are these mysterious 'we' of 
the topsy-turvy ideas who are as ready to repudiate 
these ideas on one occasion as to proclaim them in- 
evitable on another? Would not the author have 
been wiser to have spoken for himself?" 

From their respective points of view I must admit 
the justice of these remarks, so far as they go; I 
decline, however, to accept the smallest personal 
responsibility for the incongruities alleged. 

For, in the first place, I must declare that to say 
"we perceive this or that to be inevitable," when the 
point is a disputed one, is merely to follow the ex- 
ample of conventional philosophers. History and 
conventional philosophy have utterly failed to prove 
— or to show even the slightest probability — that 
the numerical strength of its adherents is an index of 
the soundness of a doctrine. Hence, without need- 
ing to reaffirm the conclusion on this point which 
is to be drawn from these pages, I feel at perfect 
liberty to speak generically of "us" when we are 
only two, or even when the plural must be referred 
to the future. The unjustifiable generic "we" being 
established in philosophical writing, it becomes on 
the whole desirable for any particular writer to adopt 
it ; otherwise his readers will be distracted by pages 



STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 381 

bristling with unusual I's, me's, and my's, or con- 
fused by long circumlocutions which, after all, must 
fail to meet the requirements of particular cases. 

And finally, I must impute all blame for the capri- 
cious behaviour of my generic "we" to the genus 
itself, homo. In doing so, I am guilty of another 
apparent inconsistency. As thus: if I regard my- 
self as deserving of expression through the generic 
"we" just as much as any sect, nation, or race, 
because my perceptions and inferences may be just 
as good as theirs, why should I demand tolerance 
for the caprices and self-contradictions of this same 
generic "we"? 

But if any conclusion may safely be drawn from 
the later and more speculative chapters of this 
work, it is this: that the life of each individual 
member of the human race must inevitably shift 
from one rational level to another, thence to a third 
and back to the first, and so forth, all levels being 
mutually irreconcilable according to any practical 
philosophy. If you are of us humans, you must 
take our history for granted ; being a man, you 
must partake in some degree of the advantages and 
disadvantages of genus homo. 

In the fourth chapter, Reason was the name given 
to the motive force of human life: the essence of 
appetites, quarrels, philosophies was to be regarded 
as the process of putting two and two together. If 
you are a bigoted Tory, you are constantly putting 



382 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

two and two together — as, for example, Somebody 
gave me this land; I seem to be living on it more 
comfortably than I could otherwise live : hence, the 
practice of giving land is a thing to be upheld. If, on 
the other hand, you are an incredible radical, you are 
putting two and two together in such wise that you 
are pretty certain to upset the Tory's reasoning 
sooner than your own. But you are undoubtedly 
at a disadvantage if you forget that you are a man, 
genus homo, and that consequently there is Tory in 
your make-up. For somebody else is sure to dis- 
cover where lie your intolerance, your snobbishness, 
obstinacy, loyalty, tender-heartedness, and supersti- 
tions, and so you will suffer a loss of confidence. 

To confess to Tory proclivities is a highly becom- 
ing proceeding in any radical. It is not only in- 
trinsically the most rational confession possible but 
it implies the admission that Toryism is not incred- 
ible. Hence it is an effective weapon against the 
Tory who is unaware that he is primarily a radical ; 
and with its aid you will avoid those moments of 
disillusionment during which the ignorant Tory might 
otherwise buy you off. 

I have not undertaken to assign definite values to 
the different levels of reason. Of two different views 
of the same particular problem of life I do not pretend 
to say that one is necessarily more rational than the 
other. But the probabilities in every particular 
case reviewed in these pages have, I believe, been 



STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 383 

indicated clearly enough. I have myself, at different 
times, taken seriously all the beliefs that have been 
mentioned and am prepared to see their ghosts rise 
up before me at any moment. 

THE RATIONALE OF DIGNITY 

In the exposition of a philosophy that deals with 
the facts of daily life mainly under general heads, 
it is hardly to be expected that occasions for the use 
of colloquial, slangy, or any other conspicuously 
ephemeral expressions should often present them- 
selves. It is, however, entirely in consonance with 
the principle of continuity that such occasions, 
when presented, should be embraced. And, the 
more ephemeral or speculative the subject-matter, 
the more pointedly do colloquialisms suggest them- 
selves. 

But for a certain consideration presently to be 
mentioned, it would seem rather curious that writers 
of serious works went in so little for colloquialisms. 
One of the best-known facts in history is that our 
languages are all founded on colloquialisms and that 
it is entirely the chance of a passing taste that pre- 
serves certain colloquialisms longer than others. 
Just as it is impossible for any evolutionary race to 
set up a marble hero as a model of manly beauty for 
all time, so is it impossible — and still more obviously 
so — that we of to-day should have chosen to cling to 
those particular idioms which appealed to our fore- 



384 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

fathers of thirty generations ago. A changing idiom, 
too, is supposed to be the mark of a progressive 
civilisation, the more barbarous races retaining their 
idiom intact for comparatively long periods. 

But idiom, we are told — and doubtless wisely — 
should not change too rapidly; for one thing, con- 
fusion would then be produced in all the business of 
life. We are told, furthermore, that it should 
change according to a reasoned appreciation of the 
changing needs of life and thought. This, of course, 
it has never done. It has, instead, changed in 
obedience to an authority in which the best even of 
current aesthetic principles have counted for little, 
whilst the most vulgar of fashionable whims have 
counted for much. All things considered, the most 
obvious course to pursue is to submit language to the 
purgative process that was outlined in my seventh 
chapter. This means the reversal of the existing 
system of imposing restraint on others as well as on 
oneself in the choice of words and construction 
of phrases. It means the repudiation of all those 
various attitudes which have arrogated to them- 
selves the name of dignity. 

Here we encounter our ancient foe in another of 
its many guises. For the rationale of dignity is the 
fear of death. 

An assumption of dignity, whether natural, habit- 
ual, or forced, must place an added and unnecessary 
limit to the merit of any serious performance. For 



STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 385 

it brings into the performance an element that is not 
only ultimately lacking in relevance but is certain 
eventually to defeat its own immediate purpose. 
This element is the consideration, How will the per- 
formance be regarded by other people ? In a per- 
fectly serious performance, — i.e. in the practice of 
an art for its own sake, — we have seen (Chap. II) 
that such a consideration could have no place. 
So much for the theoretical objection to dignity. 

The more immediate practical objections are many; 
here are two of the important ones. 

No matter what I may be trying to do seriously, 
I am serving neither the art itself nor its votaries nor 
the general public if I merely avoid obsolete bar- 
barisms and endeavour studiously or passionately to 
produce a new example in accordance with the best 
established canons of taste. 

If I am seriously composing a symphony, I may 
not attempt merely to excel Beethoven in his own 
field. Perhaps this would be practically impossible, 
and an interesting question is whether it would also 
be theoretically impossible. But, supposing it to be 
actually possible, I must nevertheless try to improve 
upon music as Beethoven and all subsequent com- 
posers have known it. I may incidentally try to 
out-Beethoven Beethoven, but this phase of my 
work must be explicitly qualified. Any symphony 
seriously conceived and executed by me must unmis- 
takably contain new subject-matter or a new mode of 



386 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

treatment, or both. I am certain, then, both to 
offend and to modify the musical taste of the day. 
If I offend it much, I may modify it much or little ; 
but if I modify it much, I must offend it much. 
However slight or fleeting the offence, I shall pro- 
duce at least a momentary impression equivalent to 
that produced by an obsolete barbarism — the im- 
pression of something out of place, not belonging to 
the art. If, on the other hand, my symphony quite 
fails to offend the musical taste of the day, I am 
assuredly not a serious but a futile musician. For I 
shall have stated explicitly that, so far as I am 
concerned, the musical art is penned in by an im- 
passable barrier. And my dignified consideration, 
How will this performance be regarded by other 
people ? must eventually be answered by these people 
in one of two ways : either he is no musician or the 
days of musical art are numbered. 

Similarly, if I skate with unfailing reserve and 
self-control, my performance will doubtless be more 
dignified than if I fling arms and legs about in in- 
discriminate fashion. But if I do not eventually 
depart from my reserve, I am recognising an estab- 
lished limit to gracefulness in the art of skating. 

The other phase of dignity, here to be mentioned, 
which renders it incompatible with the serious prac- 
tice of any art, has reference primarily to the art 
itself and only secondarily to the artist and his 
particular performances. It is, indeed, commonly 
termed the dignity of art. 



STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 387 

Now, the dignity of art is a fine phrase and doubt- 
less entirely praiseworthy if by art is meant every- 
thing that is done or may be done. But the need of 
such a phrase in such a sense is rather dubious. 
The " significance of existence" will probably do 
quite as well. 

But the dignity of art generally means the dignity 
of some particular art or collection of arts. And the 
man who strenuously upholds the relative dignity 
of a certain one amongst the arts cannot himself 
be a serious votary of this art, for he is exalting it 
above its own possibilities and is consequently 
working it an ulterior injury. In the seventh 
chapter of this work I stated flatly what I believe 
to be the inevitable inference from a candid consider- 
ation of the modern world : to wit, that philosophy 
is the prime need of the day. But nothing could be 
farther from my intention than to ascribe to philoso- 
phy an enduring precedence over all other arts. 
To try your hand at working out the quantity, 



Fact 



VFii 



Logic 



.First Principle/ 
is a pretty enough exercise and congenial, provided 
it is needed. But for my part, I should be jolly 
well pleased if it were not needed and more time 
could be devoted to dancing and playing the flute. 

To some readers it may seem strange that I should 
choose dignity for the butt of this tirade when similar 
arguments might be directed against many other 



388 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE 

phases of thought and conduct, — for example, 
frivolity. One justification is that an attack on 
dignity, like the espousal of philosophy, seems to me 
particularly timely. In no age, I believe, — at all 
events in the Western world, — has a frivolous or 
reckless way of living stood out in so sharp contrast 
with the general prudery of speech, gravity of de- 
meanour, and timorous reserve of thought itself. 
Like an undeveloped Atlas, too soft of sinew, we 
stand upright with exceeding stiffness under this 
swollen civilisation of ours, hoping thus to mask the 
trembling of our limbs. We have not even the 
support of a powerful religious Puritanism which, in 
its day, was as conspicuous as are the follies of gilded 
youth in the present hypochondriacal age. 

But the temporal justification is of small im- 
portance in this matter. The many attitudes and 
sophistries that have chosen to associate with them- 
selves the name of dignity or worth have been 
common enough in all ages ; and the strongest ar- 
gument against them was complete before this chap- 
ter was begun. It is sheer Tory chicken-hearted- 
ness that makes me urge the point. For I cannot 
take up a newspaper without seeing the accounts of 
decorous religious and temperance meetings which 
encourage underpaid mill-hands to go on with the 
business of fattening the overfed rich and bringing 
up children to do likewise. What else, indeed, can 
our preachers and philanthropists do? When the 



STYLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY 389 

whole world is dinning into their ears the supreme 
significance of death, it is small wonder that they 
should insist on the sanctity of all human lives and 
the dignity of the long and decorous ones. However 
— lest I should soon write myself down an out-and- 
out Pharisee in an elevated style, I will close, with 
a recommendation to the reader to take another 
look at Chapter VII. 



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